


the disguise is always a self portrait

by Squishychickies



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Detective Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Joker: Last Laugh Issue 06, M/M, Mission Fic, Murder Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Police Officer Dick Grayson, Serial Killers, Tim Drake is Robin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:48:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28334130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squishychickies/pseuds/Squishychickies
Summary: A new serial killer is terrorizing Bludhaven, killing without a pattern and leaving no clues behind. Detective Grayson can't make heads or tails of it--until an old acquaintance rises from the dead with more than a few surprises up his sleeve.—“Let me guess: The Helmet? It’s a pretty distinctive feature of your whole ensemble. No, wait--the Red Helmet. The Helmet Bat?”“...the RedHood.”
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Amy Rohrbach, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
Comments: 77
Kudos: 216





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title snatched from Sherlock. Which I haven't watched but my sister was helping me come up with a title for this, and for like an hour she and I were brainstorming and then she was like "omg Sherlock" and I was desperate so I was like "yes Sherlock yes" and anyways this happened
> 
> I have big plans for this story... hopefully you will enjoy it because idk ngl think its gonna be pretty legit just saaaaaaaaaaying 
> 
> and finally, everyone is welcome here to read this story. Sometimes I see people shaming others in tags or like insulting certain ships and its like... bro... it's fiction??? so idc who you ship! feel free to read and enjoy (or not enjoy lol) my story lol 
> 
> Finally: On my last story Dead In The Water, I think I had a final F-bomb count of like 142 in 34,000 words. Which doesn't seem like a ton unless you take into account like 130 of those are in the first half. So I went a little hard on the f-bomb I think??? We shall see if this fic beats the other lol
> 
> Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick investigates a murder and Jason makes a... legally inadvisable entrance.

_ "Thy friendship oft has made my heart to ache. Do be my enemy for friendship's sake." _

\- William Blake

\---

Dick puts his hands on his hips. The scene he surveys is gruesome, to say the least. He nods decisively. “He sure is dead, alright.”

Detective Rohrbach, arms crossed over her chest, sends Dick a glare. “We’ve got a genius on our hands,” she comments sarcastically.

Dick glances at her, and the side of his mouth tugs up into a slight grin. “Gee, you think?” The expression is quick to fade as he turns his attention back to the crime scene in front of him.

It’s an apartment on the alright side of town. The kind of neighborhood someone like Bruce Wayne wouldn’t be caught dead in, but where families with two working parents can scrape by without worrying their children will be shot, robbed, or kidnapped while they’re away working their fifth night shift in as many days. The room itself is small, but relatively well-furnished: a living area with a second-hand sofa and a small, wall-mounted television is attached to a kitchen with all the necessary amenities and a rickety, round dining table. Dick gets the impression that when the window above the table is open, the room is filled with bright natural light. Today, the window is closed, green curtains drawn tightly shut.

Spread-eagled on the floor beside the table is a balding middle-aged man in a pair of plaid pajama pants and a well-worn gray T-shirt, both of which are soaked through with slowly drying blood. One of the man’s arms is bent at a hideous angle, and Dick can see a glint of white where the bone pokes sickeningly through the elbow.

Dick wordlessly accepts the gloves Amy offers him and, when he has managed to force the annoyingly tight latex onto his hands, crouches down beside the body. The first thing he does is gently search the man’s pockets: he finds a pack of cigarettes and a wallet that identifies the man as David Edwards. Forty years old. American.

He hands the wallet to Amy so she can see it for herself. “Cause of death?” she asks once she’s examined it.

“Blunt force trauma, I think,” says Dick. “And I’d guess the head wound is what finished it. Look.” Touching only as much as absolutely necessary, Dick turns the man’s head to reveal the most grievous injury yet: the back of his skull is almost entirely caved in.

They’re professionals, but detectives Grayson and Rohrbach share a shudder at the sight. Absolutely appalling.

Exactly the same as the last three crime scenes they’ve examined this month.

Dick’s heart sinks as Amy gives him a look that confirms what he’s already begun to reluctantly suspect. Two caved in skulls at a murder scene is an unfortunate coincidence. Three is--well, three is a  _ Blüdhaven  _ coincidence. Four?

Four is a serial killer, no reasonable doubt about it.

“Damn,” Amy swears emphatically, standing from her crouch beside the victim. “No way this is a coincidence.”

Dick grimaces, wishing he could disagree. He’s solved cases like this before--both as Detective Grayson and in his night job. However, these four crime scenes share more than a common cause of death: they’ve all been astoundingly, frustratingly, almost impossibly clean of evidence. No security camera footage. No living eyewitnesses. No conveniently abandoned murder weapon. Certainly no DNA to be tested. Dick and Amy have investigated three crime scenes by this killer in the last month, and are about as close to finding him as they are a five-legged unicorn. They don’t even know where to  _ start. _

_ Nightwing  _ doesn’t even know where to start.

Usually, Dick tries to keep his police cases and his vigilante work as separate as possible. That isn’t to say there isn’t a lot of crossover--the nature of the job makes it virtually impossible to avoid--but generally speaking, if Dick is searching for a culprit as Nightwing, it’s because Detective Grayson was either assigned a different case or hit a dead end with the limited resources of the Bludhaven Police Department.

But this series of murders is different, and has struck Dick as so from the very beginning. Despite what the crude nature of the injuries suggests, it is instantly clear that the amount of skill involved in the killings is  _ insane.  _ He’s never seen anything like it.

If Dick ever kills a guy,  _ this  _ is how he’ll do it. Not that it’s an idea he’s considering, but if he weren’t so disgusted by this egregious abuse of skill, he’d respect it. He’s seen a thousand murders, and he’s solved a thousand too. These ones, he takes one look at and knows he’ll need every advantage he can get.

So by day, Officer Grayson spends every minute on the clock investigating. When the sun sets, Nightwing picks up where he left off. 

The ride back to the station is tense. Dick drives on autopilot, his eyes on the road but his thoughts in the bloodied apartment. Amy sits beside him, eyebrows set in determined concentration.

“I can’t see the pattern,” she says as Dick puts the car in park in front of the station.

“There has to be one,” Dick points out as he holds the door open for her. She strides past him, and Dick follows her to their desks.

Because of the BPD’s abysmal budget, Dick and Amy have to share a tiny office even though the force is pathetically understaffed. There are two desks facing opposite walls--Amy’s is neat, orderly, and organized alphabetically, while Dick’s is messy and decorated with pictures of his family. Whenever the disorganization becomes unbearable, Amy threatens to alphabetize Dick’s files. The very idea appalls him. 

They take their seats and, from the chaos of his filing cabinet, Dick produces three manilla folders--the case files from the first three murders. He hands them to Amy, and on her immaculate desk, they spread out those files plus the new one from the most recent crime scene. Dick pushes Amy’s rolling chair to the side with her in it, and scoots his own across the office so he can sit beside her at her desk and examine the folders. 

“Let’s review what we know,” Dick suggests. “The fourth person could reveal a pattern.”

“Be my guest,” Amy offers graciously. 

“First murder: Aiden Jacobsen. Twenty-two year-old white male. Five-foot-eleven. Plumber. Cause of death, blunt force trauma to skull.

“Second murder: Cameryn Perez. Thirty year-old Hispanic female. Five-foot-five. Chef. Cause of death, blunt force trauma to skull.

“Third murder: Sabrina MacDonald. Nineteen year-old white female. Five-foot-eight. Cashier. Cause of death, blunt force trauma to skull.

“And finally, today: David Edwards. Forty year old white male. Six foot. Construction worker. Cause of death, blunt force trauma to skull.

“All were discovered in their homes within four days of time of death, either by roommates finding them or, in Edwards’ and Perez’s cases, neighbors reporting them missing. No drugs were found in any of their systems, although I suppose we can’t confirm that about Edwards until we get the autopsy report. So.” Dick idly spins in his rolling chair. Amy sends him the look of an aggrieved mother who has had it up to here with his shit, but does nothing to stop him.

“So what do they have in common,” Amy finishes. Her arms are crossed, one finger tapping the opposite arm in a steady rhythm.

“They all happened within the last month, in Bludhaven,” Dick begins. 

“All of the victims were employed.”

“All of them were found within their own homes.”

“Criminal records?” Amy asks.

“Only Jacobsen. Stole from a gas station when he was seventeen.”

“Hmmm,” says Amy thoughtfully. She’s graduated from tapping her fingers to clicking a pen open and closed, over and over again. One reason their partnership works so well is that Dick doesn’t mind the sound. 

“Hmm.” Dick agrees. He runs a hand through his hair. He would very much like to go home now. 

In the wake of the killings, Dick’s past month has been a bit of a trial. Not only is he keeping up with his regular patrol as Nightwing, but he’s investigating this case full-time on top of his usual responsibilities. The result has been a truly unfortunate loss of sleep and free time, and Dick always feels especially exhausted after visiting a crime scene. It’s always been one of his least favorite jobs, and something about this murderer specifically has unnerved him since day one. They’re too clean to be natural.

All in all, Dick would love nothing more than to go home and dive into bed for a long-ass nap--or at least one that lasts until the results of the autopsy report are back, and he can talk to the forensic pathologist about their newest corpse. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be an option. Something about their most recent victim is nagging Dick, but he can’t put his finger on it.

“Amy,” he says, staring at the little picture of David Edwards on his driver’s license, “I think this guy seems familiar.”

“What, really?” she asks, snatching the card out of his hand to examine it for herself. “I don’t recognize him.”

“I don’t know if I do either,” Dick admits. He stops spinning his chair to hunch over the desk, fingering through the papers in Edwards’ file. He can’t place where he’s seen this guy before, but something about it feels important. “But I’ve seen him somewhere. Or heard his name. I don’t know. He seems familiar.”

“Pardon me if I don’t consider that very compelling evidence, rookie,” Amy tells him dryly.

“Not a rookie,” Dick complains.

“You’ll always be  _ my  _ rookie.”

Dick cracks a grin. “Thanks, Amy. You know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Oh, you’re special, alright,” Amy agrees grimly.

Amy has been a detective for three times as long as Dick, but she’s the only partner he’s had since he earned the title. Her assessment of his capability was dubious at first, and it took more than a few solved cases for him to begin proving himself. But he’s not corrupt like so many of the cops in their department. That goes a long way in improving Amy’s opinion of him--that, and the fact that their team is depressingly understaffed and she’s a little bit out of options. Somewhere along the line, she grew to begrudgingly respect him, and at some point after that, her motherly instincts kicked in. Now she brings him a casserole at least once a week and scolds him for making bad decisions, like skipping out on sleep for what she thinks are nights out on the town. They are--just not in the way she assumes.

Dick feels lucky to be her partner. She stands out as the best detective in Bludhaven by about a mile. 

“I’m going to get us coffee,” Dick announces when another few minutes have yielded no fruit. “When I come back, the case had better be solved already.”

“Only if you get me my soy latte,” Amy bargains. She shoots him finger guns as he leaves, but her friendly grin turns into a grimace just as soon. She’s stretched as thin as Dick is. Her reputation as the BPD’s best detective is what had landed her this case in the first place, and everyone is depending on her to solve it.

As Dick strides through the hallways, wondering whether to go out and grab them coffees from the local coffee shop or to put up with the station’s mediocre offerings, he’s distracted by the sounds of a shouting match outside, in the parking lot. He rushes outside and glances over to where two officers--Malloy, who had been Dick’s partner during his stint as a beat cop, and Patricks--are restraining a man with a leather jacket, dark, out-of-control hair, shiny sunglasses that obscure a large portion of his face, and what must be at least two hundred pounds of muscle.

“I ain’t paying the fucking fine!” snaps the man in the handcuffs. The tone of his voice suggests this is not the first time he’s asserted it. 

“The fine is the least of your worries, buddy,” Officer Malloy tells him grimly, holding him down against the side of the cop car. 

Dick grimaces sympathetically as he passes by. He’s done arrests like these--they’re about as fun as they look. The guy under restraints has graduated to threats, snarling, “I could kick all your fuckin’ asses if I wanted to!”

“Not helping your case,” Malloy says. He catches Dick’s eye over the perp’s shoulder, and nods.

“Hey,” Dick says as he passes by. He’s deciding whether to help, or let Malloy and Patricks take care of it. But at the sound of his voice, the man freezes. For a moment he stands there, still as stone except for the rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes heavily in and out. 

Then his efforts to escape redouble. He swings his leg out to kick Malloy’s legs out from under him, and when the officer hits the ground with a pained grunt, swings the leg back at Patricks, who had pulled out his gun at the first sign of violence. The weapon is kicked out of his hands, and it slides across the asphalt and under another car with a scraping noise.

Having temporarily taken down the two officers, the man wastes no time bolting, hands still cuffed behind him, chains rattling as his boots pound against the sidewalk. Dick takes off after him, and Malloy, having recovered from his attack, is soon on his feet chasing after Dick and the assailant as well. He’s got his radio in his hand and is calling for backup as he runs, as though they aren’t right outside the police station where there should be a dozen cops clamoring to give them a hand. That’s the thing with the BPD. If there’s no opportunity for personal gain, a lot of the officers are more inclined to sit on their asses and pretend nothing’s wrong than stand up and do their job. Dick’s lucky Malloy isn’t one such officer--he’s always been someone Dick respects. Patricks, he’s not so sure of. He usually leans towards the lazy end of the spectrum. 

“Fuck off,” yells the man as he runs.

Dick doesn’t bother to respond. He catches Malloy’s eye, and signals towards the nearest alley. He’s lucky he and Malloy made such an effective team when they were partners--Malloy understands his plan instantly and nods.

Dick picks up his pace and curves his path, so that there’s only one direction the man can flee without running straight into either him or Malloy. It’s straight into a dead-end alley, which is dark and shady with a few dumpsters and a fire escape that leads up a tall brick building.

Instantly, Dick and Malloy have the man cornered. “Fuck you,” he snarls as he realizes he’s trapped, struggling with his cuffs. His arms remain chained behind his back.

“You’re only making things worse for yourself by resisting,” Dick says as he takes a slow step forward.

The man looks up, eyes narrowed furiously, and the expression hits Dick like a smack in the face. At some point during the chase the guy lost his sunglasses, and without them—

Without them, Dick knows this man. How could he not have recognized him? He’d know this face anywhere, nevermind that it’s been four years and the man before him is nothing like the kid he used to know. He’s still family. He  _ knows  _ this man.

_ “Jason?” _

“Took you long enough,” Jason says with a sneer. Dick’s heart skips a beat. Now that he knows who it is, everything seems familiar. The voice, the posture… he doesn’t know how he’s chased him this far without realizing. “What are you gonna do about it?”

“What are you  _ doing?”  _ Dick demands incredulously. Then it hits him like a sack of bricks. “You’re  _ alive.  _ Oh my God. How are you  _ alive?”  _

“You know this guy?” asks Malloy, shooting Dick a side eye. 

“Yeah,” Dick says with a disbelieving laugh. “He’s family. Jason. What the fuck are you doing here? What’d you get arrested for? Why didn’t you come see me?”

“Caught him in a public space with an unregistered firearm,” offers Malloy in explanation. “Near the casinos.” 

“You had a  _ gun?”  _ Dick demands, shocked. With all his Robin training, Jason should know how to take down an attacker in at least a dozen ways without any sort of weapon at all.

Jason rolls his eyes. “You think I’m gonna walk around Bludhaven without one?” he asks, like Dick’s the one being stupid. 

“You resisted arrest. Why’d you do that? Bruce could bail you out in  _ minutes.”  _

It’s like Dick’s flipped some sort of switch. Jason explodes with sudden rage, face going red. “That old fucker has never done  _ anything  _ for me,” he bellows.

Dick takes a startled step back, and another realization hits him like a punch to the gut. “He doesn’t know you’re alive, does he?”

“You think he’d give a shit? Fuck off. I ain’t telling him. And you aren’t either! I should--”

“Malloy,” Dick interrupts loudly before Jason can say something he’ll regret in front of an officer. “I can handle this. He’s family.”

Malloy eyes him warily. “You’re sure? He seems a little… unstable.”

That’s… an understatement. But. This is Jason, who Dick hasn’t seen in four years. Who he believed was dead. Who he mourned, and missed, and—

“Yeah, I got this. You can call off the backup. I’ve got it under control.”

Dick is—ecstatic. Jason is alive. This changes everything.

“If you say so,” Malloy agrees uncertainly. “Call me if you need me.”

“Will do,” Dick promises. Malloy leaves, his footsteps echoing loudly in the alley. Dick waits until the sound has faded completely before continuing.

“Jason,” he says, moving closer. “I can’t believe you’re alive. Oh my God. Have you been alive the whole time?”

Jason sneers at him, expression wild and unstable. “Like you care,” he grits out. “Don’t think I don’t know, you didn’t even go to my fucking funeral.”

Dick’s heart pounds guiltily. “I didn’t know,” he admits quietly. He approaches Jason very slowly, and when it looks like he’s not about to erupt with any more sudden violence, slips his keys into Jason’s handcuffs to unlock them. They fall away with a clatter. “Bruce never told me.”

“Of course he fucking didn’t.” Jason rubs his wrists roughly. 

“Listen,” Dick says, heart fluttering with some indeterminable mix of emotion. Jason is alive. Jason is  _ alive.  _ After all these years. He almost can’t wrap his head around it. “I’m on duty right now. But--I want to talk to you. I won’t tell Bruce. Wait for me at my apartment?”

“Why the fuck would I want to talk to you?” Jason hisses. “I should fucking kill you. You never did  _ nothing  _ for me.”

“Please,” Dick pleads. Jason is  _ alive _ again, after years and years of missing him and fighting with Bruce and wishing it had been him instead of the precious little fifteen year old caught up in an adult’s crusade. He can’t let him slip through his fingers again. “I won’t tell Bruce,” he repeats. “Promise. I missed you.”

“And if I say no?” Jason asks. He eyes Dick warily from where he stands a careful distance away. He looks like an animal, primed for fight or flight at the slightest prompt from Dick. 

“I can’t make a habit of letting people under arrest go,” Dick says meaningfully. Letting him go at all twists painfully at the moral side of Dick, even though it’s the BPD and nobody will blink at him releasing a possibly armed suspect. They’ll assume he bribed Dick, if anything, and wish they could have been there to get in on it. If it was anyone else, Dick wouldn’t have unlocked the cuffs. But--it’s Jason. And after all these years, he trusts him. He’s not just going around releasing armed suspects left and right—this is his family. It would be wrong to arrest him.

“Fuck you,” Jason snarls as Dick leans down to pick up the handcuffs off the dirty ground. He secures them carefully on his belt.

“I’ll give you my address,” Dick says. “Please be there. I missed you, Jason, for so long.”

Jason doesn’t respond. Dick forces himself to walk away, stomach full of butterflies.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you weren't expecting another update this soon! I wasn't actually planning on posting it yet. But I know when I'm scrolling through ao3 looking for fics I never really click on an incomplete one unless its got at least a couple chapters, and this one was done already, so uh, merry late Christmas? or whatever else you celebrate! or if you celebrate nothing at all, happy normal day!
> 
> Things to look forward to in this chapter:  
> \- murder talk  
> \- epic Jason action
> 
> enjoy <3

He hasn’t even returned from his coffee run when he gets the call from Amy informing him that they’ve found yet  _ another  _ body that looks like their killer.

“Fuck,” Dick swears. “Okay. Where is it? I’ll meet you there.”

Amy rattles off the address--this time it’s not a home, but a hotel room near the casinos. It’s a fairly expensive one, popular with the gambling tourists, which is about the only kind of tourist they get in Bludhaven, other than ones with death wishes.

Dick hangs up the call and is on his way with a sinking feeling in his heart. Looks like their killer is becoming more ambitious. Two kills in one day, in totally opposite sides of town. The murderer must be gaining confidence.  _ And why shouldn’t he, _ Dick wonders grimly to himself. The killer has to know the investigators are making progress like a sloth through quicksand; he’s already proven himself scarily intelligent.

When he arrives at the scene, Amy is already there along with other officers, who have taped off the room to prevent civilians entering. One officer is comforting a sobbing woman outside the door. He nods at Dick as he arrives and slips under the tape reluctantly. Two kills in one day. It makes him anxious. He wishes he could be anywhere but there, investigating his second crime scene before dinner.

But it’s his job. He signed up for this. So, putting his apprehension on temporary hold, Dick goes in. 

The victim is a young woman with dark skin and long, curly black hair, sprawled out across the bloody hotel room bed atop the covers, deep brown eyes frozen open and unseeing. Dick’s heart almost stops at the horrifying sight. Underneath all the gore, there lies a girl Dick has seen before. The deja vu is so strong, it’s undeniable. He knows her. 

But from where? He can’t put his finger on where. 

Amy is already wearing her latex gloves, but she doesn’t need to touch the victim or turn her head to confirm what Dick can already see. The dark halo of curly hair does nothing to disguise the fact that the top of the victim’s skull is caved in. As if that’s not enough to do the job, the rest of her body has been beaten broken and bloody. Just looking at her from several feet away, Dick can point out several broken bones. Even without the head wound, she’d probably be dead.

Goddamnit. Would it be too much to hope for that this was a random killing, unrelated to the ones Dick’s been tracking? Apparently so. Sickening as it is, this is their serial killer’s classic MO--no matter how much he wishes it wasn’t.

Dick leaves Amy to investigate the crime scene, and heads back outside the hotel room. He remembers the hysterical girl being comforted by one of the other officers. He’ll have to talk to her--she might know something.

She looks up as he crouches down beside her, and when they meet eyes, Dick is  _ again  _ struck by that strange feeling that he knows her from somewhere. The deja vu is seriously starting to throw him off. He had recognized Edwards, however vaguely, and now the newest victim, and this other girl… his chest feels tight with the knowledge that something is  _ very  _ wrong here. That he’s missing something. He just doesn’t know what. 

“Hey,” he says gently. “What’s your name?”

“Annalise Johnson,” she tells Dick, eyeing him distrustingly. She sniffles distraughtly. 

“Nice to meet you. I’m Detective Grayson. And I’m really sorry about what happened,” he offers. He’s got to do this right. If she doesn’t trust him, there’s no way she’ll tell him anything at all, save for a harsh interrogation he suspects they’d both rather avoid. And then he’ll be met with yet another dead end on this God-forsaken case from hell. “She was your--"

“Sister,” Annalise confirms before breaking into another round of heartbroken sobs. Past her tears she looks incredibly stressed out, and angry.  _ Furious.  _

Dick’s heart breaks with her’s. He… knows what that’s like. For a family member to be murdered. The most horrible thing in the world. 

“Can you come back to the station with us? We’d like to ask some questions. To figure out what happened to your sister.”

“Am I a suspect?” demands Annalise with a renewed burst of rage. “How dare you--”

“You’re not a suspect at this time,” Dick confirms, holding his hands out soothingly in front of him. “But we need all the information we can get to solve this case.” He knows his eyes must be wide and pleading, and maybe that’s what does it. 

There’s a moment of silence, until Annalise’s face, set in a mask of distrust, softens, and she finally agrees. “Fine.”  Dick offers her a hand to help her up, but she stands on her own.

\---

Back at the station, Dick and Amy lead Annalise to a private room. She glares at Dick apprehensively the whole way there, but she seems to trust something about Amy. Probably one of Amy’s mom-powers. Dick is a little jealous. She just exudes an aura of trustworthiness.

“Alright,” says Amy once they’re all seated in the little room. “I’m Detective Rohrbach.” She points a thumb at Dick. “You’ve met Detective Grayson. We need you to tell us everything you know about what happened today.”

“Not goddamn much,” Annalise snaps. “Be more specific.”

“How did you find your sister?” Amy prompts. 

Annalise shudders. “I left her to go get dinner to bring back,” she explains in a shaking voice. “I was gone--an hour and ten minutes at most. It would have been faster, but I had to go to her favorite place across town. It was--” she stops and swallows. “It was her twenty-first birthday. So I was getting her her favorite food. When I came back--when I came back she was--dead.”

Dick’s eyes widen. Seventy minutes. If Annalise had been any faster coming back, she’d have caught the murderer in the act. Of course, that might have resulted in her own death, as well. She’s incredibly lucky to be alive. Would the murderer have killed them both, had he encountered two of them in the hotel room instead of the one he’d bargained for? Dick doesn’t want to know.

Annalise seems to catch Dick’s surprise, and she continues defensively, “I thought she’d be safe if I left her alone in the hotel room! I thought--I know Bludhaven is bad, but we came here because of the gambling and I thought it would be safe--it’s got its own superhero, for Christ’s sake. I thought it would be safe.” She’s wracked by a fit of shudders. “Well, fuck that! See if I ever come back here.”

Dick is caught off guard. He sits back in his seat, ramrod straight, heart pounding nervously. He relaxes his muscles quickly, however--he doesn’t want Amy to make the connection between Bludhaven’s superhero and her detective partner. She’s the best detective on the force--all it would take is a miniscule hint for her to realize that Dick’s day job is not his only occupation. Sometimes he wonders if she already suspects. 

“You trust vigilantes?” Amy asks, making note of something on her clipboard.

“Superheroes,” Annalise corrects. “And, duh, you don’t?”

“Nightwing operates outside the law,” Amy points out.

“Nightwing saved my life,” Annalise snaps, righteous anger lighting in her puffy red eyes. 

And it suddenly hits Dick exactly where he knows her and her sister from. It was maybe a decade ago, but he remembers it like it was yesterday. “When?” he asks, just to confirm, heart pounding.

“It was when he was Robin,” Annalise begins, glaring at him. “Tracy and I--we were little kids, and our mom was working the night shift at the gas station, so we were home alone. Some men broke into our apartment. I think they were just going to rob us, but they didn’t count on there being witnesses. One of them grabbed me, and he was going to stab me with my mom’s kitchen knife. And Robin broke right in through the window and took them down. He was only a little older than I was,” she recalls. “But he saved us.”

Dick remembers the incident with perfect clarity, despite all the years that have gone by. It had been a series of robberies by the same group of thugs back in Gotham--he and Bruce had been tailing them for weeks. It was like every time they caught one robber, more would spring forth. It had taken two months before they were finally able to catch the boss of the operation and shut the whole thing down.

“Robin and Nightwing are the same person?” asks Amy, eyebrow raising sharply. Clearly she’s not up to date on her vigilante gossip. Odd that this is the detail that gives Amy pause, but then again, she’s brilliant. Dick’s not about to question her process.

Annalise shoots her a glowering look. “Duh, who’d  _ you  _ think he is?” she asks rhetorically, just as Dick answers, “It hasn’t been confirmed…”

They finish questioning Annalise, and even though she hadn’t been a suspect to begin with, by the end of the interview it’s clear that this woman is in no way responsible for the death of her sister Tracy Johnson. It becomes apparent pretty quickly that she’s in absolute shock--she really had trusted Nightwing to keep them safe during their stay in Bludhaven. A naive perspective to be sure, but--

\--Isn’t that how Dick wants civilians to feel? He wants them to trust him to keep them safe. He wants them to see Nightwing as a beacon of hope. And Annalise and Tracy had.

He’d failed them. Some beacon of hope he was.

In some ways, it was easier to be Robin than Nightwing. He and Bruce had secured the support of the Gotham City police department, and earned the almost universal trust of Gotham’s citizens. He remembers saving families, and the children would run to hug him. He remembers mothers, frantic with worry and love for their children, thanking him and Bruce profusely. Fathers shaking his hand and nodding--he remembers one gruff father of three putting a hand on Dick’s shoulder and telling Batman, father to father, man to man,  _ you’ve got a good boy here _ .

It was a bit like being Superman--if you didn’t hate Batman and Robin, you loved them. And of course you only hated them if they’d thrown you in jail. It was easy to let all that renown go to his head. He was a boy, but he was also a hero--he was a legend.

Nightwing is named after a legend, but it isn’t one from Earth, and it doesn’t come with the same reputation. He’s eyed with suspicion more often than gratitude or admiration, and Amy herself has voiced concerns about the vigilante activity in Bludhaven. She loves him as Dick Grayson, treats him like an equal and a friend and a little brother all in one, but she’d probably arrest him too if she ever got close enough on one of his patrols. 

There had been a time, a few years ago, when Dick was disputing revealing to Amy his secret identity. He’d daydreamed that she and he could be like the new Batman and Gordon: partners, of a sort, in the ongoing war against crime. The naive hope died when Dick, as Nightwing, handed Amy the notebook of Mary Redhorn: an indisputable piece of evidence that, if used in court, would serve as a one way ticket to prison for their corrupt chief of police. Dick had assumed Amy would be over the moon to have the new evidence. It was exactly what they had been looking for to guarantee Chief Redhorn was put to justice. But Dick had miscalculated--it was like Nightwing’s very touch had soiled the notebook, and Amy hardly wanted to look at it. She was too suspicious of the strange new vigilante in town to trust any help he delivered, no matter how much they needed it. The man they had been trying to arrest ended up murdered in cold blood. Dick might as well have burned the notebook.

Maybe if the rumors that Nightwing and the original Robin were one and the same were ever definitively confirmed, things would be different. But to reveal it would be like  _ asking  _ for a dangerous security breach. As it stands, if Nightwing is exposed as Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne’s secret identity is still safe. That wouldn’t be the case if people knew what Nightwing means to Batman.

The final and most important point is that as Nightwing, Dick has finally escaped Batman’s shadow, so tall and wide it seems to stretch on for miles. It took years, and arguments, and months spent lost and alone and unsure, but Dick made it out--he’s his own hero. And though he hasn’t earned most people’s trust just yet, he knows when he finally achieves it, it will be through his own accomplishments. He’ll  _ deserve  _ it.

He doesn’t deserve it now, though. The bloody corpses waiting in the morgue are evidence enough of that.

Dick goes over the timeline of the killing again and again in his head--it’s ridiculously close. Annalise had been gone for seventy minutes. She returned to the hotel room and found it locked, and her sister wasn’t responding to her knocks at the door. So she’d gotten a new key from the front desk. There had been a bit of a line to speak to the receptionist--that endeavor took another ten minutes. When she opened the door, she was met with the dead corpse of her sister.

Eighty minutes total. This is the closest they’ve come to catching the murderer, and it’s still not enough. Eighty minutes! She might have passed him in the hallway on her way out, for God’s sake.

Then again, maybe not. Say the murderer had been lying in wait, watching for Annalise to leave her sister alone in the room. In that case, he’d have entered as soon as she was gone, gotten the job done, and hauled ass out of there. Tracy could have been dead in as quickly as five minutes, depending on the fight she put up and whether the killer had gone straight for the killing blow as opposed to playing around with his victim.

Well. There’s no way to know for sure, save for video evidence, which Amy has already confirmed does not exist of the incident. All Dick knows for a fact is that the murderer has slipped through his fingers again--this time more closely than ever. 

He leaves the station that evening no closer to solving the case and with the weight of five bodies pressing down on his shoulders. The guilt has intensified exponentially with today’s events, and there is nothing he would love more than to take a big, fat nap before he hits the skies as Nightwing. Dick is doing a terrible job disguising his fatigue--Officer Malloy claps him on the shoulder and gives him a sympathetic look on his way out, and Amy eyes him suspiciously and tells him pointedly that she hopes he intends to get some actual rest.

_ Would that I could, Amy. Would that I could. _

He’s not opposed to a day off every now and then, but tonight is not that night: Dick hasn’t forgotten about Jason. Who is alive. And who is, hopefully, at his apartment waiting for him. He’d been able to compartmentalize pretty effectively through the end of his shift--and he’d had to, to effectively investigate the crime scene and have a productive conversation with Annalise--but now that he’s finished, the shock of finding Jason alive has come back more intensely than ever, as well as the anticipation, and the jittery nervous feeling in his stomach.

When he turns the lock of his apartment door and steps inside, it’s dark, and seems empty. Dick has to bite back the wave of crushing disappointment that threatens to swamp him. Had he  _ really _ expected Jason to come?

Well, yes, if he’s honest. Yes he had. Go figure.

In his disappointment, he slams his door shut a little harder than necessary and practically shotputs his keys onto the counter. “Damn it,” he growls to himself. Lord knows how he’s going to track Jason down if he decides he doesn’t want to be found. Not a task he’s looking forward to.

Not that Dick’s not going to do it--now that he knows Jason is alive, nothing is going to keep him away. But it’ll be difficult. And there’s already quite a lot on Dick’s metaphorical plate.

His literal plate, not so much. In the rush of crime scenes, interviews, and chase-downs, Dick had neglected to stop for lunch, and he’s been running so low on sleep lately that he’d decided to sacrifice breakfast that morning for fifteen extra luxurious minutes in bed. That means he’s ravenous despite the disappointment that swirls in his stomach. Dinnertime. 

Dick prepares an elegant meal of box mac and cheese (every time he eats it, he’s reminded why he doesn’t like it, but whenever he goes to the grocery store, he forgets again and tosses four boxes into his shopping cart). He eats it in quick bites on the couch, and before twenty minutes have passed, he’s tossed the bowl into his overflowing sink and has unlocked the secret cabinet in his closet to pull out his Nightwing suit. It’s a little early for his usual patrol, but tonight’s agenda has just gained an extra item: investigate today’s crime scenes, fight any crime he trips over on the way there, and find Jason.

His desire to procrastinate the serial killer issue is second only to his apprehension regarding Jason, so when Nightwing takes to the skies, it’s with a lot less enthusiasm than usual. The iconic playful attitude has been replaced with a grim, determined aura--he’s got his game face on.

Beneath it, though, Dick is a bit of a nervous wreck. Jason, a member of his  _ family,  _ is alive--was he ever dead to begin with? How does that even  _ happen?  _ In what universe is that a possibility?

He won’t admit it even to himself, but a deeply buried part of Dick is terrified that this is all some elaborate joke, and when he discovers Jason, he’ll be just as dead as they all assumed he was. Dick doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle the heartbreak for a second time. It was crushing enough the first. 

_ Which is more likely _ ? Dick wonders.  _ Jason actually being alive, or me being tricked somehow into believing he is? _ Seems like something the Scarecrow could make happen, if he really wanted to. The thought is like a bucket of cold water trickling down his spine.

God. What if Jason is actually dead?

Dick shakes the thought off with eyes closed tightly. That’s a bridge he’ll cross later. For now, he’s got to keep his head in the game: Murder. Serial killer. Crime scenes. Yes.

Dick goes to the hotel first, because if his assumptions regarding the timeline are correct, that’s where they came closest to finding the culprit. If there is any evidence to be had, it will be found there. Maybe he was in too much of a rush to clean up properly? God, Dick hopes. 

Dick elects to pick the window’s lock and pry it open as opposed to just breaking through like he occasionally enjoys doing--he needs to leave the evidence as unaltered as possible, and the window hasn’t yet been ruled out as a point of entry for the killer. Though he does note as he enters that the window’s lock seems to be unaltered. If the killer came in through the window, that’s probably not how he exited, since it seems like he relocked it behind him, which can only be done from the inside. 

He’s expecting a lot of things when he slips in past the curtains--blood, gore, perhaps a handy-dandy murder weapon laying around with a signed confession and some fingerprints. What he’s not expecting is to be met with the barrel of a gun, pointed straight at his forehead.

“Wow, someone’s feeling a little paranoid,” Dick quips to disguise the sudden pounding of his heart, holding his hands up non-threateningly. “Pulling a gun on me before I’m even in the window? Terrible manners.”

The man holding the gun is, if looks are to be believed, another masked vigilante, which makes Dick’s eyebrows rise. He’s got a leather jacket, a firetruck-red helmet, and even though Dick is more focused on the weapon pointed at his face than anything else, he does take a moment to notice that his height is admirable. Maybe a half foot taller than Dick, if not more.

Already these features are familiar, but when the man speaks, everything clicks into place.

“Oh, it’s just you,” the masked man says scornfully just as Dick accuses, “Jason!”

Jason pauses, lowers his gun, and takes a moment to stare incredulously. “Goddamnit,” he complains. “How’d you know it was me? Is it obvious? I would have thought the giant fucking helmet would conceal my identity well enough, if a pair of glasses and a spit curl does the job for Clark.”

Dick beams, heart soaring with relief and joy. “It’s not obvious,” he assures him, taking a step back to better observe. “It’s just because it’s me, and I’d know my family anywhere.”

“Hmph,” Jason grunts, crossing his arms after he reholsters the gun. “We’re not family. And you didn’t recognize me earlier today when I was wearing the shades,” he accuses.

“Uh, pardon me for not immediately jumping to the conclusion that the dead kid I knew four years ago was actually alive. And being arrested! Seriously, Jason.” Dick winces as soon as the words are out of his mouth. If Jason actually had died, he’s probably sensitive about it. Dick shouldn’t poke at the wound. 

“Stop calling me that,” Jason orders, oddly reminiscent of a whiny, petulant Bruce ordering  _ no names in costume!  _ If such a thing as a whiny, petulant Bruce exists. Dick doubts it. 

Dick would smirk at it, but he can’t stop genuinely smiling for the life of him. Now that he knows for sure that Jason is alive, all of his grief and disappointment and sadness has been replaced by overwhelming joy and relief. He feels lighter than he has in--God, lighter than he has in years.

He knows this isn’t going to instantly heal the wound--four years of mourning are not fixed in a single day. But this is a joy he’d never even dared to hope for. It’s a dream come true. There had been a time when he’d have given  _ anything  _ to have Jason back, and now here he is, and Dick didn’t even have to make any epic sacrifices. It almost feels too good to be true. Damned if Dick’s going to take it for granted.

“Well, seeing as I don’t know your superhero identity, I don’t have any other options. Let me guess: The Helmet? It’s a pretty distinctive feature of your whole outfit. No, wait--the  _ Red _ Helmet. The Helmet Bat?”

“...the Red  _ Hood _ ,” Jason admits in a grumble.

“I love it!” Dick exclaims, genuinely delighted _.  _ He feels like he’s on some sort of giddy high--his stomach is fluttering with happy butterflies and he doesn’t think he could stop smiling if he  _ tried _ . He’s got Jason back.  _ He’s got Jason back.  _ It’s like a whole world of opportunities is opening up, right before his eyes.

It’s not that simple, he’s sure. But logic is taking no part in his thoughts, right now. He’ll save that for later.

When he’s stopped laughing at Jason’s on-the-nose choice in name, he puts his hand on his hips. “You look good,” he decides, declaring it how a grandmother might compliment her grandchildren when they all gather at Thanksgiving. “And you’re taller than me! Never thought I’d see the day.”

He’s still busy staring proudly at Jason, taking in all the new growth and changes, when it suddenly occurs to him what’s  _ behind  _ Jason. The blood-spattered walls and bed. The crime scene. This is a crime scene! There’s been a murder, and Dick is going to solve it. That is what he’s here for, after all.   


“I’m here to solve the murder,” he informs Jason unnecessarily, forcing his grin off his face in an attempt to be serious. It would be unfair to Tracy Johnson if her killer was never brought to justice because the detective on the case was too busy with family bonding. He strides past Jason over to the bed. “That what you’re doing here, as well?”

“No, I committed the murder and I’m here to laugh about it,” Jason deadpans sarcastically. “Yes, I’m here to try and solve it. Since you and your detective partner don’t seem to be making any progress.”

Dick ignores that jab to propose, “Since you’re working on it, and I’m working on it, why don’t we work on it together? Two minds are better than one, you know.”

Jason scoffs and crosses his arms. “Just because I decided not to shoot you doesn’t mean I want to work with you. I haven’t forgiven you  _ or  _ Bruce.”

Dick turns to face Jason. He’s gained about a hundred pounds and practically two feet since Dick last saw him as a scrawny fifteen year old, yet something about his defensive posture is exactly the same as he remembers it: his arms are crossed and his shoulders are tensely hunched. Jason is hurt, and he’s masking it with anger. 

Dick takes it in, and it feels like  _ magic.  _ Everything he thought he’d never see again is right before his eyes--if he’s not careful he might cry. Something about the whole thing makes Dick’s heart ache. There’s no doubt in his mind: this is the same Jason he knew all those years ago. He’s so different in so many ways, but above it all, despite it all, he’s familiar. “What are you mad at Bruce for?” Dick asks quietly.

Jason clenches his fist. Usually this is the part where he’d punch a wall--it’s happened before--but he has the good sense not to disturb the crime scene too much, and Dick is grateful. “What am I mad about?” he begins, voice oddly quiet. “What am I mad about. Let’s make a list. He goes and gets me blown up, and he lets the fucker who did it  _ live.  _ But that’s not enough, no, he has to go and pour salt in the wounds and rub it in like he’s seasoning a damn porkchop. He goes and gets a new Robin! Like, one dead kid isn’t enough, let’s throw another into the line of fire! Wouldn’t want poor Brucie to go without his child-sized human shield. Because that’s what Robin is. You can’t fucking deny it. Yeah,  _ more fucking children  _ is what we need caught up in this goddamn war, that’ll just fix everything!” By the end of the speech, Jason is breathing harshly in and out, his shoulders rising and falling with it. “It’s like--it’s like I was a goddamn goldfish, and when I died, he went to Walmart and bought another that looks exactly the same and gave it the same name, and the same little fishtank with the same little toys and decorations, fed it the  _ same shitty ass fish flakes,  _ and just pretended it was the same fucking fish. So as long as he doesn’t look at it too closely, doesn’t take too long to think about it, it’s like the first one never died. Problem solved! He’ll do it again, too. He’ll do it as many times as he needs to.

“Maybe I could forgive him for letting me die. But don’t you think it’d teach him a fucking lesson? I was a--” Jason sputters and gestures his hands wildly, searching for words. “God, I was a kid! So were you. And so is the replacement. And Bruce is putting us in the line of fire like fucking soldiers _. Fuck that.” _

Dick stares, and takes those words in.

Jason is--the thing is, Jason is kind of right. The more Dick thinks about it, he has a point, and it’s one Dick doesn’t know how to refute. He’d been prepared to defend Bruce--to make Jason see reason and reach forgiveness, like he’s always done as the family’s mediator. Today, he’s not seeing a lot of mediation opportunities.

_ A child-sized human shield _ . Dick knows that isn’t Robin’s entire purpose, but, come to think of it… what other shield does Bruce even have? Black kevlar, emotional ineptitude, and years of combat experience. When those fail--and they  _ do _ fail--

When those fail, it’s down to Robin as the last line of defense.

Dick survived it. Jason didn’t. It’s the nature of the job--the nature of vigilantism, the nature of heroism, the nature of being fifteen years old and putting on a mask and a cape and a pair of fucking pixie boots and going out on an adult’s crusade to  _ make a difference.  _

“I killed the Joker,” is what finally comes out of Dick’s mouth. He’s not sure what it is--a peace offering? A way to assure Jason that he’s been avenged? Or proof that Dick isn’t like Bruce--evidence that he’s different. If you push him and push him and push him enough, he’ll snap. If you push Bruce--well, you can’t push Bruce, not any more than you can push a cinderblock wall or a train moving a hundred miles an hour in the opposite direction.

“You  _ what?”  _ sputters Jason. It’s clear that these are  _ not  _ the words he expects out of Dick, and he’s left at a bit of a loss. “That’s bullshit. You know how I know? Because he’s not fucking dead, Dickhead.”

“Batman resuscitated him.” Dick pauses for a moment, swallowing, before he continues the shameful story. He doesn’t know why he’s telling Jason. He doesn’t like to talk about it. “I beat him to death. No weapons or anything. Just--my bare hands. I was so angry. I couldn’t even see straight.”

The memories of that day are hazy at best, seen through a thick film of rage and violence and hurt. He doesn’t remember the moment he actually snapped and killed him. He doesn’t remember the finishing blow. But he remembers the moments that led him there. Believing Tim was dead. Believing  _ Jason  _ was. And the Joker’s sick taunts:

_ “Aw… jeez… I hit Jason a lot harder than that.” _

_ A leering smirk. “His name was Jason, right?”  _

Before he knows it he’s trembling with anger again at the memories, and Jason sees it. He takes a shocked step back. “You really did it, huh?”

“What did I just say?” Dick snaps. He runs a stressed hand through his hair and breathes out slowly, then continues, “I get why you’re mad at Bruce. But I’m not--I’m not him. Let’s work together. We need all the help we can get on this case.”  _ And I miss you. _

Dick doesn’t know if it’s the thing about the Joker that convinces him, or something else. But Jason takes a glance at the bloody bed and squares his shoulders. “Yeah, alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading my dudes! all comments, kudos, and bookmarks are super duper appreciated. See you on the next update o/ I've got tons of exciting, evil plans, mwahaha. it'll be epic I promise.
> 
> (oh, and constructive criticism? totally welcome. Ideas and suggestions as well! <3)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh, be aware of violence in this one 
> 
> Thanks to my sister writer_on_fire01 for beta-ing the first half of the chapter  
> She is however not responsible for my decisions in the second half lol

The morning after Jason agrees to work with Dick is record-breaking in terms of epically unpleasant surprises, beginning with a premature wakeup call. His alarm is set for 7:30, but he’s woken at precisely 6:48 by the ringing of his phone. Mortally offended by the gall of whichever idiot elected to disturb his peaceful morning, he answers the phone with a short, groggy, “Yes?”

It’s Amy. Of course it is. She’s a mom of two young children--does she even know what sleep is? Does she even need it anymore? “Hey, Dick,” she greets, sounding repulsively perky. “Any chance you can be in a little early today? The autopsy reports are ready, and we’ve gotta decide what to do about the media.”

Dick blinks dumbly, his exhausted brain refusing to comprehend the words. It takes a moment before everything clicks. He replies in the tone of a disappointed father who’s daughter has ignored her curfew to the point of criminal neglect: “What time do you call this, Amy?”

He’s joking a little bit, but seriously. The sun hasn’t even fully risen yet, so the light that penetrates his curtains is dim and blue-tinted. The temperature is still low, and Dick pulls his blanket tighter around himself. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to just stay in bed, wrapped in his thick quilt and comfortable pants as opposed to his police uniform or Nightwing’s tight, flexible kevlar. 

“Time for you to get your ass out of bed, partner,” Amy replies, not missing a beat. “Or--no, silly me. It’s not like there’s a serial killer running around or anything! Please, sleep in. Be my guest.”

_ “Amy,”  _ Dick complains, but he’s already dragging himself to his feet.

“Don’t be mad at me,” she orders. “Or you’re fired.”

“Gee, that’s the fifth time this week,” he deadpans, a grin starting to spread on his lips. For all her annoying early morning wake-up calls, Dick loves Amy. For some reason. She’s one of his only true friends in Bludhaven.

“Be here at seven,” Amy tells him as he opens up his closet to locate his police uniform. “Much to do.”

“Yeah, yeah. Autopsy reports, serial killers, media, I got it.” Suddenly Dick freezes. The meaning of his words has only just occurred to him. “Wait. _Media?”_ He knows exactly what that means. And it doesn’t bode well. “Oh no. Tell me they haven’t, Amy.”

“They have,” she says grimly. “Tick tock.”

Amy hangs up, leaving Dick alone in the silence of his apartment, one hand frozen reaching for his uniform, eyes wide in horror.

The media. Oh Lord, the horrible, horrible, media. Sweet Jesus.

One might assume that in a city as violent, crime-filled, and poverty-stricken as Bludhaven, the local newspapers would be as gritty and loaded with trash as the dirty streets or the polluted harbor. That assumption would be wrong.

Because the Bludhaven newspaper is  _ worse. _

It’s called  _ Vanity Fete,  _ which is an offense to both vanity and  _ fetes _ . It’s coverage is extensive--a police officer, a political figure, or, God-forbid, a  _ vigilante,  _ cannot so much as sneeze in Bludhaven without making headlines, which are rarely flattering. A month or two ago, Nightwing came across a stray dog and fed it a piece of chicken. Not two hours later, he was famous:  _ Illegal Vigilante Feeds Dangerous Wildlife, Endangering Local Children! Exclusive photos included!  _

He’s just lucky they didn’t accuse him of a love affair with the dog. The school district chairman was not so fortunate in last week’s exclusive article.

With growing trepidation, Dick opens his laptop and enters the word  _ Bludhaven  _ into the search bar. Before he even finishes spelling it, the first result to pop up has him wanting to smack his head on a wall:

_ Nightwing Investigates Blüdhaven Blüdgeoner with New, Mysterious, Vigilante! Detective Mission, or Ill-Disguised Cover-Up Attempt? _

“Oh, sweet baby Jesus,” Dick whispers. Bravely, he clicks on the article.

Below the egregious headline is a blurry picture of Nightwing and the Red Hood exiting the crime scene through a window. Dick is grinning as he shoots out his grappling line, Jason close behind him. The picture is, all things considered, not as bad as it could be. Dick takes in a fortifying breath. So far, so… acceptable. He steels himself and scrolls down.

_ Nightwing may be gorgeous to look at, but beneath the ruggedly handsome exterior, dark secrets may lurk! _

_ If you’ve been anywhere near Blüdhaven in the past month, you’ve heard of the Blüdhaven Blüdgeoner: a terrifying serial killer hellbent on picking off the good citizens of Blüdhaven one by one, often in the comfort of their own homes. Detective Amy Rohrbach and her handsome, billionaire partner Detective Dick Grayson with the Blüdhaven Police Department have been assigned the bloodchilling case, but many citizens are searching for hope elsewhere, in the controversial form of vigilante assistance. The fear struck into the hearts of the humble Havenites has been lessened by the comforting, paternal presence of our very own city sweetheart: the masked vigilante Nightwing, named after a prominent figure of Kryptonian legends. But is their confidence misplaced? New evidence suggests that Nightwing may be the very killer he swore to protect us from. _

_ In the late hours of last night, he was spotted breaking into an active crime scene through the window--a suspiciously evasive decision for someone who claims to be aiding investigations. In addition, his iconic escrima sticks were holstered on his back, a common sight for anyone acquainted with Nightwing. But the sticks on his back, which speculators once considered no more than a bold fashion statement, could have a much more sinister purpose. The Blüdhaven Blüdgeoner is famous for boldly maiming his victims through blunt force trauma--which would make Nightwing’s sticks the perfect murder weapon, hidden in plain sight. _

_ This is not last night’s only scandal, however--not only did Nightwing break into the zone of active police investigations with the possible intent of obscuring damning evidence, he did it with the help of a new, well-armed masked man never before seen in Blüdhaven. _

_ The strange new accomplice, whose mask resembles a cinnamon Tic Tac, could be seen breaking in around the same time as Nightwing, and eyewitnesses claim they left together. Not only does this suggest that Nightwing’s crimes may not have been solo, as he wants the public to believe, but benefitted from the aid of a co-conspirator, who the  _ Vanity Fete _ Editorial Board has named the Helmetman after his intriguing choice in headwear.  _

_ Sources close to Nightwing have developed a theory as to the nature of Nightwing’s connection with this sinister man. Ingrid Walsh, who claims to be a close friend of Nightwing (having spotted him from several streets away last month) argues, “Remember Discowing? No self-respecting straight man would wear the Discowing suit. They just aren’t that fashionable. Nightwing is obviously gay, which calls into question his feelings for his extremely masculine acquaintance. It’s more than likely that he and Helmetman have some sort of romantic connection, which explains how he was able to convince him to help commit murder. You always hear people telling their close friends, ‘I’d help hide a body for you.’ It’s clear that Nightwing has taken this very literally.” _

_ Ingrid Walsh is not the only Havenite who feels this way--the anonymous eyewitness who submitted the front-page photo included in their message to  _ Vanity Fete  _ that, “Nightwing and this new guy seemed to be very close. You can’t see the new guy’s face, but Nightwing kept smiling, and at one point, their shoulders brushed as they exited the window. It’s clear there’s something going on there.” _

_ So there you have it, folks. Is Nightwing as trustworthy as he leads us to believe? Is the Blüdhaven Blüdgeoner hidden in plain sight? Who is the Helmetman really? And the most pressing question of all--is Blüdhaven’s most eligible superhero no longer a bachelor? _

_ Find out in next week’s exclusive article. _

\---

“I don’t even know Nightwing, and I’m offended on his behalf,” says Officer Malloy as Dick passes by at the station. He’s got the article open on his computer, and is taking immense pleasure in reading the most quotable sections aloud. “‘No self-respecting straight man would wear the Discowing suit.’ Listen. I’m gay and  _ I  _ wouldn’t wear the Discowing suit. No one should.”

“Nightwing made it work,” Dick defends, a little hurt. He’d thought it was cool. Not to say it hadn’t seemed like a better decision at the time than it does now, but still. He does not appreciate the article’s attack on his wardrobe choices, thank you very much.

“Well, I bet Helmetman liked it, at any rate,” Malloy chortles. “Helmetman. Do you think he’s actually called that?”

“Oh, look at the time,” Dick says weakly, pointing at the clock. Accuse him of murder? Alright, he’ll deal. Insult his wardrobe decisions? That’s just below the belt, okay. The Helmetman thing, though _ \--that’s _ funny, at least. He can’t wait to tell Jason about it. It’s the kind of nickname with the potential to stick. God does Dick hope it does. “Got to go see Amy about the autopsy report.”

“Seeya!” Malloy waves. “ _ \--the ruggedly handsome exterior!  _ This article is solid gold!”

Amy is waiting for him in their office, and much to his appallment, she’s reading the article as well. “I can’t help but feel a little jealous,” she comments, looking up at Dick as he enters the room. “I’m the lead investigator here, and Nightwing and  _ Helmetman _ are getting all the attention? Man. What does one need to do around here to be accused of murder in a trash magazine?”

“Not much, apparently,” Dick grumbles. He’s still annoyed at her for waking him up early after such an eventful night as Nightwing.

“Well, we’ll see,” she reasons, closing her laptop. “We’ve got a press conference scheduled next week. I’m sure they’ll be able to spin some drama out of that.”

“Would it really be the  _ Fete  _ if they couldn’t?” Dick asks. It’s kind of their trademark, after all. He shudders and prays that the press conference does not require his presence.

“I’ve still hardly recovered from when they accused me of cheating on Jim last year. With Nightwing. You meet that guy on a rooftop  _ one time--” _

Dick shudders. That had been a particularly atrocious piece of reporting--Amy is more like a mother or older sister to him than anything. Amy had been equally offended, which he refuses to admit had hurt his feelings a tiny bit. “They really think highly of Nightwing’s seductive abilities,” Dick comments.

“Evidently.” Amy claps him on the shoulder, suddenly businesslike. “Autopsy reports got done early this morning. We’re gonna meet with Dr. Jimenez.”

Dick follows her down the hallways to the morgue, glad of a change in subject. It’s not that he can’t find humor in the article--they spelled  _ Bludgeoner  _ with accents over the U, for fuck’s sake, and that means it’s really pronounced  _ Bl- _ ieuu- _ dgeoner _ \--but being accused of murder is really not what he needs to boost his positive reputation with the citizens. At least this time the affair is only with Jason, who is guaranteed to absolutely lose his shit when Dick shows him. The list of people Nightwing has been suspected of seducing is not short.

Dick has been looking forward to talking with the forensic pathologist about the victims. Dr. Jimenez is the sort of person who knows something about everything, but in her chosen field of corpses, she’s like a walking encyclopedia.

“Good morning, detectives,” she says when Dick and Amy walk into the morgue. “Welcome to work.”

“Morning, Dr. Jimenez,” Dick says, attempting to inject at least a pretense of cheer into his voice. Not only is he not a morning person, but the morgue always creeps him out. It’s a lot colder than the rest of the building, which is never fun, and also, it’s full of dead bodies. Which is just lovely. 

“Morning, Suzette,” Amy says, because the two of them are on a first name basis. Dick doesn’t want to know what might happen if he ever tried to call Dr. Jimenez by her first name. He might end up one of the bodies on a metal table.

At least the tables are, for the moment, occupied. On one rests David Edwards, and on the other, Tracy Johnson. Dick forces himself not to look awkwardly away from them. This is his job, and he’s a professional, after all. He can handle looking at a couple corpses.

Dr. Jimenez, in a pristine white lab coat and a pair of blue rubber gloves, stands up from her ergonomic office chair and wastes no time with smalltalk before directing them over to Edwards’ body. Immediately, she points to a series of welts on his arm. “See these marks?” she asks, gently brushing over them with one gloved finger.

Dick follows her finger with his eyes. The marks she is pointing to are red and painful-looking, and come in sets of two. “A crowbar,” is what immediately comes to mind.

Dr. Jimenez nods. “That’s what I thought. That’s reinforced by these gashes.” she points to where the skin has been torn open. “That’s where he was hit by the sharp end. And here.” Jimenez directs them to the victim’s chest, where the outlines of harsh blows are long, straight, and come in parallel sets of two. “This was the long end.”

Dick nods, mind already whirring with the possibilities. They can instruct all of Bludhaven’s hardware stores to inform them when a crowbar is sold, and to whom. Meanwhile, they’ll search all of the dumpsters and trash cans near the crime scenes for discarded crowbars. It’s not likely the Bludgeoner was careless enough to dump his murder weapon so close to the scene of the killing, but he’ll definitely want to avoid keeping such damning evidence on his person. So there’s probably a crowbar or two hidden around town somewhere that’ll help him incriminate their killer.

“Edwards was dead for at least three days when he was discovered,” Jimenez continues. “And the head wound was what finished it. His other injuries, while gruesome, are technically survivable.”

“Johnson, on the other hand,” begins the pathologist, already moving around to examine the other corpse, “had been dead for two hours at most when she was brought in. The marks on her body indicate the same weapon was used. Hard to tell if it was the same exact crowbar or a different one, though.”

Dick nods and, professionalism be damned, turns his head away from Johnson’s desecrated body. With her, it feels personal. He’d rescued her from an armed robber when she couldn’t have been more than ten years old.

If only he’d known the time he bought her was limited. 

“Anything else, doc?” asks Amy, dragging Dick from his thoughts. Her face is set in a grim, determined expression, one that Dick’s seen before.

“Well, it’s worth mentioning that this matches marks found on the first three bodies as well.” Jimenez walks across the room, to where Dick knows more bodies are stored. “Want to see?”

“Ah--maybe later,” Dick says, trying to hide his discomfort. Amy gives him an amused little smirk.

“Suit yourself,” Jimenez tells him breezily. “If there’s nothing else?”

“Thank you, Suzette,” says Amy. “You’ve been a big help.”

Dick can’t leave the morgue quickly enough. Amy surely notices, but she’s either polite or tactful enough not to bring it up. He can’t fully explain his apprehension--he’s been investigating murder cases since he was nine years old. These should be no different.

But. He knows Tracy Johnson. He saved her once.

He might not know David Edwards. But the feeling of deja vu he gets whenever he looks at him is stronger than any he’s ever felt before. And he doesn’t know what to make of it.

\---

“Helmetman?” Jason demands incredulously.  _ “Helmetman?  _ This is bullshit!”

“Come on,” Dick teases, poking Jason’s shoulder. Jason jerks roughly away. “It could be worse. It’s fitting.”

“It’s the  _ Red Hood,”  _ Jason growls, crossing his arms. “How hard is that? I’m wearing a hood. It’s red. It’s not that fucking hard!”

“Yes,” Dick agrees, “Because that clearly is a hood, and in no way resembles a helmet. How could they possibly jump to such a ridiculous conclusion?”

“Exactly!” Jason exclaims, throwing his hands out in front of him. “I’m telling you, this is worse than Vicki Vale. At least she got the names right.”

They’re sitting on the rooftop of the hotel they investigated the night before. The night sky is dark and starless enough to conceal them from the view of anyone down below, and since there is no new crime scene to investigate today, their meeting tonight is so that Dick can relay all his new information to Jason. And they’ll get around to that--they will. But for now, Dick is just enjoying talking to him. Teasing him. Shooting the breeze. He remembers a time when he thought he’d never get to do that again, and now the normalcy of it is filling his chest with a burning mixture of joy and aching nostalgia. “My coworker loved it,” Dick says darkly. “He agreed about the Discowing suit. And he’s gay! I thought he’d get it.”

“Dickhead,  _ no one  _ gets the Discowing suit,” Jason tells him crushingly. “I’m sorry. But that was a mistake.”

Dick throws his hands in the air. “I had no guidance!” he complains. “No one taught me anything about fashion except a circus troupe and a guy in a batsuit.”

Jason looks at him through the helmet. Not for the first time, Dick wishes he could see his expression. It’s so hard to judge what he’s feeling after all these years apart, and the frustration is amplified by the fact that he can’t even see his facial expressions. “You seem to have gotten the hang of it eventually” he says, tone unreadable. 

Dick… is not sure how to react to that. So he opts not to. “The worst part,” he divulges, “is that they spelled  _ bludgeoner  _ with the little accents above the U. I don’t know what they’re called. But it’s pronounced like--”

_ “Ewww,” _ Jason interjects.

Dick snaps his fingers. “Yes. Like that.”

“So we’re chasing a serial killer called the Bl-eeew-dhaven Bl-eeew-dgeoner?” Jason asks. Dick can hear the smile in his voice, and something inside him swells with a long forgotten happiness.

“This is a serious matter,” Dick chastises gravely. “While you’re here laughing about it, the Bl-eeew-dhaven Bl-eeew-dgeoner could be chasing down his next victim.”

They both lose it a little at that despite their soldierly attempts not to, laughing like they’re just teenagers again, and some missing piece of Dick clicks back into place like a puzzle piece he didn’t even know he was without. Dick grins, eyes squinting up, and stares at Jason. He’s so proud. Of Jason for being here, and of himself for making him laugh the way they used to.

The moment passes, their laughter fades, and Dick announces, “Casework!” He claps his hands together and rubs them eagerly. “Ready, Little Wing?”

“I’m ecstatic,” Jason informs him flatly. 

“Got a breakthrough today. The murder weapon: it’s a crowbar.”

There’s a moment of silence that’s just a little bit too long, and Dick isn’t sure what to make of it. He wonders if he needs to elaborate as the tension steadily grows. He opens his mouth to explain further, when Jason finally says, “Really?” His voice sounds strained.

“Yeah. You could tell from the little welts. You know the sharp part of a crowbar, how it's got like, two different prongs? You could see the outline of them on the bodies.”

“That seems like a big leap to make from just a few marks,” Jason says. His head hasn’t moved, but Dick gets the feeling that he’s not looking at him anymore. Something he’s said has made Jason uncomfortable. He’d do anything to undo it. But he doesn’t know what it was. 

“It’s our best guess based on the evidence we’ve got,” Dick says with a shrug. “And that’s not a lot.”

Jason snorts, and the tension in the atmosphere seems to dissipate. Dick almost sags with relief. Sometimes, Jason feels like an animal, poised to flee at the smallest hint of danger. Or a crossbow, loaded, primed, and ready to shoot with just a pull of the trigger. The question is what--who--the arrow would hit. How much damage would be done? And--most importantly--what constitutes a pull of the trigger?

Hard to know for sure, and intuition isn’t getting Dick very far right now. There’s only so far it can take a person anyhow.

Dick leans forward. He’s sitting on the very edge of the rooftop, legs dangling off, and he rests his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. He stares at the Bludhaven horizon, the line of the buildings where they meet the smoggy sky. Tonight and last night he’s found that sometimes he feels like he can look at Jason for hours; like he would be hard-pressed to tear his gaze away. Other times it’s too much. Jason is so different than he was before. And it’s wonderful--he’s tall and strong. Well-nourished looking. Scarred, but healthy. But to superimpose that image over the image of the fifteen year old he failed is disorienting--makes something inside him clench with painful guilt.

“Let’s go to the harbor,” Dick suggests impulsively when he’s ready to look at Jason again.

“What?” Jason asks, startled. “Why?”

Dick shrugs. “Why not? My bike’s stashed in an alley. Come on.” Deciding not to stick around for Jason’s agreement, Dick jumps off the ledge and, in one fluid motion, shoots a line across the street to hook onto the edge of the parallel building. He swings over the street, releases the line, and lands with a backflip for show--because he can, and he wants to, and he’s Nightwing, who he loves to be.

Jason climbs down the hotel by hopping from balcony to balcony. “Show-off,” he accuses when he reaches the bottom.

“If you’ve got it, flaunt it,” Dick teases cheekily. He leads Jason around the side of the building to the alley where he’s hidden his bike. He prefers to travel by rooftop, of course, but the bike is practical as well, and if he’s honest, he wants to show it off to Jason. It’s pretty damn cool--and he built it all by himself, without any help from Bruce.

Before he reaches the hiding spot, sounds of a fight draw his attention, and before he knows it, he practically trips on a mugging.

There’s a man in a ski mask holding onto a woman by her arm, using his other hand to try to snatch her purse. She looks like she’d rather die than let go, which Dick admires, but he also notices that there’s a terrified kid hiding in the shadows.

Nightwing leaps into action. He takes a running start towards the man, and in one fluid motion, grabs an escrima and leaps off the ground. He somersaults over the mugger’s head, landing a brutal blow to his skull, and the man releases the woman and her expensive-looking purse.

Stumbling, dizzy from the hit, the man backs away, but Nightwing is faster. Before the mugger can recover, his hands have been zip-tied behind his back, and he’s been deposited on his ass on the dirty concrete. “Yikes,” Dick comments, gracefully snapping the escrima back in its holder. “That was a sad attempt. And I’ve seen some pretty pathetic muggings.”

He turns to the woman and hands her back the purse. “This, I believe, is yours.”

Finally, he crouches down, and calls to the kid in the shadows, “It’s all cool, little bro. You can come out now.”

The little boy that emerges from the hiding spot is nervous, but the terrified look in his eyes has faded to something resembling amazement. “You’re a superhero!” he declares.

“I don’t know about  _ that.”  _ Dick laughs awkwardly. He’s not technically  _ super,  _ in terms of the word’s exact definition.

Super or not, the kid dashes forward to hug Dick’s leg. “I met a superhero,” he says into Dick’s leg. “Sasha’s going to be so jealous.”

Dick grins. He hopes Sasha’s jealous, too. He hopes Sasha never has to meet him, and if she ever does, it’s under different circumstances. He runs a hand through the kid’s hair, smiling down at him, and then suddenly, there’s a pair of lips on his.

“Mmph!” he grunts, startled, and pulls his head away, heart pounding. God, that had scared the shit out of him. He hadn’t seen it coming whatsoever. He probably needs to work on his vigilance, then, but the kid had been distracting him. 

It’s the mom. The woman he’d rescued. “Sorry!” she says, cheeks pink, pulling herself away rapidly. “I couldn’t help it. Sorry. Thank you so much. I’m so grateful. I’m Lizzy.” She has the good grace to look embarrassed, at least--maybe it really had been her first reaction.

Still, though.

“Oh,” says Dick. His fight or flight instincts are still primed and ready to go. It’s been a while since something has taken him by surprise so badly. “Yeah. It was no problem, really. Anytime.”

Lizzy manages to detach the kid from Dick’s leg, and together, they begin to walk away. The little boy waves at him; Dick waves back with a hesitant little smile. “Do you need help getting home safely?” he asks. “The streets here are dangerous.”

“It’s okay,” says the woman. “Our hotel room is right in here.”

It makes sense that they’re staying in the hotel. The woman’s purse looked way too expensive for a Bludhaven local--anyone who even has the money to buy something like that, also has the street smarts not to carry it around in a dark alley at night.

Dick nods and turns away, and is startled yet again by Jason’s looming presence. He’d forgotten Jason was there to witness the whole thing.

Dick jerks a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the mugger, still zip-tied on the floor. “I’ll call the police for this guy, then we can get going?”

“I don’t want to anymore,” Jason says roughly, arms crossed. 

Surprised and mildly offended, Dick jerks back. “What? Why not?”

“I just don’t!” Jason snaps, taking a threatening step forward. Dick steps back, hurt and confusion growing in his chest.

“Call me when you need me for the case,” Jason says, voice still rough around the edges but softening a little. He doesn’t look back as he stalks away.

Somewhere deep inside him, Dick feels loss. 

\---

Jason’s abrupt and perplexing departure does not constitute a valid reason to end the patrol, and Dick is sure the one mugger he’s stopped isn’t the only person up to funny business that night. So he leaves his bike in it’s hiding place and grapples back up to the roof, where he can hop from building to building, scanning the streets for crime below. He’s hyper-aware of every person he sees. Anyone--absolutely anyone--could be the Bludgeoner. Maybe they’ve even met.

The fact that serial killers often have no motive--or at least no sensible one--makes things even more difficult. Generally when investigating a murder, the motive is the most important part. If you can answer the question of who would want the victim dead and why, you can narrow down the list of suspects considerably.

But serial killers often don’t have a motive. And even if this one did, Dick would be hard pressed to discover what it is, since there is no discernable pattern between his victims. 

Maybe that’s what Dick needs to be looking into more carefully. What connects all the victims together?

He makes a note to discuss that with Amy tomorrow.

When his patrol is finally over, Dick is veritably exhausted. He’d only caught a few hours of sleep last night because Amy called him into work so early, and the nights before that had been no different. Not to mention how hard he’s been pushing himself lately. The Bludgeoner is a threat to innocent lives, and Dick can’t justify taking any breaks until he’s been caught and put to justice.

He needs to collect his bike before he can go home, so at the end of his tiring patrol, Dick finds himself back at the alley beside the hotel room. He rubs his back uncomfortably as he lands in the alley and makes his way over to the hiding spot--there’s a nasty bruise beneath his shoulders and a sluggishly bleeding cut below that. They’re hits he should have been able to avoid, but the events of the night had him too distracted to dodge in time. 

The bike is behind a dumpster, obscured by clumps of ivy that have sprouted up the walls. Dick pulls the greenery away and freezes.

There’s a note attached to the handlebars.

Dick feels his heart almost stop, and then begin to pound harder with fear. With trembling, hesitant, fingers, he plucks the piece of paper off the bars, and reads:

_ Dear Nightwing. I’ve been watching. You’re acting so cocky, like you think you’re safe. _

_ It’s cute. I think you’re really cute. _

_ 221B _

For a dreadful moment, Dick stares at the note and rereads it, blood roaring in his ears. He’s having trouble comprehending it--not only the words but what they mean for him.

The Bludgeoner is watching. Is he watching now?

Is he  _ always  _ watching? Does he know who Dick is?

The thought is terrifying. The last time a villain found out his secret identity, dozens had been killed. He still remembers the taste of smoke in his lungs from the fire at Haly’s. The grit and shrapnel that dug into his knees as he rooted around in the rubble of his apartment building, searching for survivors and finding not one. The rain mixing with Roland Desmond’s blood and Tarantula's and his own, all pooling around him, on the roof of that building where everything came to a hellish head.

Not again. Please, please, not again.

Then Dick rereads the note for the fourth time, and it feels like his head has been plunged into a bucket of ice water. 221B. That’s the number of a hotel room.

Adrenaline takes the place of rational thought as Dick, note still tightly grasped in one hand, sprints for the gaudy double doors leading into the hotel room. There’s a man in a suit watching the door and Dick runs right past him. Heedless of the mud he tracks across the expensive carpet, Dick dashes through the hotel lobby, ignoring the yells of the man behind the front desk and the startled exclamations of the people sitting on the plush leather sofas.

No time to take the elevator. Dick takes the stairs two at a time until he reaches the second floor.

Heart thumping painfully against his ribcage, breath coming harshly, Dick scans the doors. 200B. 210B. 220B. 

Finally he reaches 221B, and the eerie quiet of the fancy hallway is broken by the sounds of Dick breaking down the door by ramming his shoulder against it. It’ll bruise nastily, no doubt, but Dick doesn’t care, he has to get in as soon as he can to stop the murder before it happens--

The handle snaps and the door swings inwards. Dick stumbles, regains his footing--

And is too late.

Lizzy, the mother he had rescued, is sitting on the floor, propped up against the wall. Spattered around her, so copious that Dick can smell it, is a mess of scarlet blood. It’s soaked into the expensive carpet. Stained her designer outfit. Dripped down the wall, where it’s smeared in sickening splashes.

There’s even some on the ceiling.

Dick feels sick as he stares at her. He bends down to check her pulse with no real hope, and predictably, finds he's too late to save her. And then he remembers the kid.

Frantic with another wave of terror, Dick searches the hotel room--throws the blankets off the king-sized beds and searches beneath them, checks in the closet and all the cabinets of the kitchenette, and out on the balcony. But he can’t find Lizzy’s son.

Sweat rolls down Dick’s forehead, matting down his hair distastefully. His breath comes out in harsh pants. Fear is making his head foggy. The Bludgeoner wouldn’t kill a kid, would he? Who could possibly be so sick?

A guy named the goddamned Bludhaven Bludgeoner would, that’s who. He's murdered six innocents in cold blood--why would a kid be so out of the question?

Finally, Dick throws open the door to the bathroom, and his eyes catch sight of the little boy. He’s laying down in the empty bathtub.

Hardly breathing, Dick reaches for the boy with trembling fingers. His chest rises and falls with breath. And he’s got a pulse.

Dick exhales, feeling lightheaded with relief. He picks up the boy, very gently, and holds him tightly against his chest.  _ Oh God. Thank God.  _ He's hardly been more thankful in his life.

The kid isn't out of the woods yet. He lays unconscious in Dick's arms, entirely unresponsive. Dick runs a hand through his hair, and inhales sharply when he finds a bump on the top of his head.  _ Fuck,  _ he thinks, standing up so quickly his vision goes spotty for a moment. Hospital. Help for this kid,  _ now. _

“I’m sorry,” he tells the unconscious boy as he opens the doors to the balcony and steps outside. “I’m so sorry.” One hand tightly holding the kid against him, Dick uses the other to throw out a grappling line and swing out onto the nearest neighboring roof. His bike would be faster, but if the Bludgeoner found it to leave a note, it could be compromised. Plus, he can’t drive it with one hand. And he’s not gonna risk killing the child in a motorcycle accident, of all things. 

Faster than he can ever remember moving in his life, Dick swings from rooftop to rooftop with the child in his arms. He doesn’t wake up through the trip, but he keeps breathing, and when Dick checks his pulse intermittently, it remains. Still, Dick is frantic with worry as he reaches Bludhaven General and runs inside.

Heads turn in his direction as Dick carries the kid in, but he’s completely beyond any feeling of self-consciousness as he thrusts the boy towards the first doctor he sees. 

“Please, help him,” he begs, holding him out for the doctor to take. “He was attacked. There’s a bump on his head, I don’t know how long he’s been unconscious for. He could be injured elsewhere, too.”

The doctor takes the child from his arms, and Dick sags with relief, leaning one arm against the wall. He coughs into his other elbow. Now that the adrenaline is receding, Dick can begin to process the events of the night. God. He’s  _ exhausted.  _ He takes a moment to catch his breath, and it's hard.

A nurse hesitantly approaches him. “Are you injured?” he asks.

“No,” says Dick, hardly bothering to look up, “thanks.”

“You’re bleeding,” says the nurse.

“It happens,” Dick says. “I’ll be fine. I’ve gotta stay with the kid. His mom--I’ve gotta stay with him in case he’s attacked again.”

“I’ll take you to his room,” promises the nurse, “if you let me stitch up that cut.”

“No,” Dick snaps, glaring at him. “I said no, okay? Take me to the kid.” It's stupid, he knows, but he feels too guilty to allow himself to be treated. Like he doesn't deserve healthcare. But why should he get it when Lizzy couldn't? She'd been the one to really need it, and Dick hadn't made it to her in time. Her death is on his shoulders.

“Fine,” the nurse acquiesces, looking intimidated and offended all in one. “This way.”

Dick can hardly pay attention to his surroundings as he follows the nurse down the halls. His thoughts are a swirling mess of guilt and horror.  He should never have left Lizzy and her son after they’d been mugged that night. He’d known it was dangerous--what was he fucking thinking?

He hadn’t been, apparently. And it had cost a woman her life. It had cost a child his mother.

He’s never been more disgusted with himself in his life.

Another realization strikes Dick as he takes a seat next to the child’s bed, where doctors are clustered around, examining him. And it’s that this one is personal.  The Bludgeoner has been watching him. Had Dick put a target on Lizzy’s back by saving her?

He sinks into the chair and rests his forehead on his hand, scrubbing his fingers through his sweaty hair. This is too painfully reminiscent of the Blockbuster situation.  God. Dick can’t deal with another Blockbuster. He just can’t.   


Looks like he’s gonna have to, though. Because he will  _ not  _ allow dozens to die again. There have been six victims so far. And that’s how it’s going to stay.

Dick will  _ not  _ let the Bludgeoner destroy his city. He will track him down. And when he finds him--

He will make him regret it.

For now, though, Dick sits beside the child whose name he doesn’t even know. Terror and anxiety and guilt create a noxious mixture in his stomach. He puts his elbows on his knees, his head on his hands, and leans forward, screwing his eyes tightly shut. He feels sick.

He will stop the Bludgeoner--that much, he knows with unswayable certainty. But he doesn’t know how. He feels lost and uncertain.

He doesn’t know what to  _ do. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! Poor Dick. He'll get through this. Jason's gonna regret ditching him lol.
> 
> I appreciate all comments, kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions! Thanks for reading, have a super awesome wonderful epic day of joy!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one takes a focus on the relationship and history between Dick and Jay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ENJOY!!
> 
> warning though for this chapter, non-explicit discussion of childhood sexual abuse (not to Dick or Jay) and pedophilia (again, not having to do with Dick or Jay)

There’s a calendar pinned to the off-white wall of the hotel room. Next to that is an analog clock, a sort of minimalist deal with sharp black lines as opposed to numbers. Dick, hunched over in his seat with his hands clasped in his lap, watches the light change as the moon begins to set and the sun rises through the window. The clock ticks steadily forward, rhythmic and unrelenting. The hands move from line, to blank space, to line again.

Saturday morning, is what those lines mean. The sun has risen. It’s time to tick off a new day on the calendar.

Dick forgot about work. It starts in half an hour.

_ Should I call Amy? _

Probably. 

He makes no move to pick up his phone. To break the silence of his vigil at the child’s bedside would be sacrilege. To leave the room, unforgivable. There is not a lot Dick can do to protect the kid. But he can sit here, and that’s something, at least. So that’s what he does.

Minutes tick by, slow and heavy. Dick wonders if the child has another parent. The police department will take care of figuring that out, he knows. It doesn’t feel like enough.

But what will ever be? He cannot pay his penance to a dead woman; he has nothing to offer to a child who needs a parent and will now forever lack one.

He doesn’t even know the kid’s name. He’d told the doctors that his mom was named Lizzy, but he doesn’t know her last name. When he and Amy investigate the crime scene today, he supposes they’ll figure it out.

Though, how can he investigate a crime scene if he wants to stay here with Lizzy’s son? If he survived the encounter with the Bludgeoner, he must have seen something. He might  _ know  _ something. That means he’s dangerous--and he’s  _ in _ danger until the murderer has been caught. And that responsibility, Dick knows, rests squarely upon his own shoulders. 

Dick’s new mission is to devote his every minute to catching the Bludgeoner and bringing him swiftly to justice. He owes Lizzy, her innocent son, and the other victims a debt--a debt that totals their six invaluable lives. One that totals everything Dick owns and more. A lot more.

So what, then, when all of that is gone, does Dick have left to pay? Nothing, is the answer. Dick can give over his entire life, and that still leaves five innocents unavenged.

There’s a vibration against his thigh--in a pocket, Dick’s phone is ringing. Slowly he unfolds himself from his hunched pose and hits the button to answer.

“Amy?” he asks, not having bothered to check the caller ID.

“Try again,” says a voice.

“Jason,” Dick sighs, sagging in relief. He knows Jason can look after himself--he’s been doing it since he was a little kid on the streets with a drug addict mother and a deadbeat dad. Still, though, he worries at the thought of Jason alone in Bludhaven.

Faceless, nameless victims? He can handle those. He can investigate the crime scene and look over the forensic analysis and say at the press conference,  _ what a terrible shame. The Bludhaven Police force urges you to stay home and stay safe while our trained officers take care of this temporary disturbance…  _

But the thought that Dick might show up to a crime scene one day and see a member of his own family lying in the place of the victim--

Bruce, in the apartment with the wide window and green curtains, lying face down in a pool of his own blood with only a wallet to identify him. 

Alfred, reclining on a bed in a fancy hotel room, eyes open and reflecting back a pool of his own blood.

Jason, slumped against a wall with drops of crimson blood staining the ceiling above, mirrored by the flecks on the carpet and the splatter on the wall.

\-- _ that  _ imagery is what nightmares are made of.

“Bingo,” says Jason dryly over the phone. “I take it you’ve heard?”

“Yeah, I’ve  _ heard,”  _ Dick replies. “It’s--”

“Awful,” Jason interrupts. 

“Yeah.”

There is a moment of silence on the line. Dick is still irked at Jason for pulling his disappearing act the night before, but overwhelmingly, his relief at Jason’s wellbeing outweighs any negative feelings. He’s already dealing with so much. He can’t be mad at Jason, too, right now. He literally does not have the emotional capacity to deal with that much at once. His annoyance at Jason can take a number and get in line.

“Listen,” Jason finally says after clearing his throat awkwardly. “I got some shit to tell you. I owe you an explanation about last night--a few explanations, actually. Can we talk?”

Dick glances warily at the open doorway to the hospital room, where nurses, doctors, and patients bustle by one after the other. He can’t really speak openly where so many people might hear. He coughs meaningfully. “Now isn’t a great time,” he admits. 

“Where the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing at seven thirty in the morning?” Jason demands incredulously. 

“Hospital,” he says. “Kid survived.”

“No shit?” Jason says, sounding pleasantly surprised.

“Yeah.” Dick turns to glance at the kid, sleeping in the hospital bed. Doctors think he’ll be okay. Just a bump on the head. “He’ll recover. But I’ve been staying with him since I brought him here. Seemed like the safest option, for the time being.”

“Huh,” says Jason. “Yeah, that makes sense. What are you going to do about work?”

“Think I might have to skip it today,” Dick admits. “I don’t know. Obviously I  _ need  _ to go in, because, you know.” He doesn’t want to reveal too much information about his day job while in costume, but he’s sure Jason will get the point: he cannot conceivably miss the investigation of last night’s crime scene. “Kid takes priority, though.”

“Yeah,” Jason agrees thoughtfully. There’s a momentary pause, then a slamming sound through the phone, like Jason has rudely slammed a door shut. There’s a jingling, too. Sounds like keys. “Tell you what--I’ll come watch the kid for the day. Get everything sorted out for him. Where he can stay, who he can stay with, how he can keep safe. Leave it to me.”

Dick pauses, lips parted, in surprise. “For real?” he asks, unsure. “You’d do that?”

“‘Course,” Jason agrees easily. “It’s for a kid. No sweat.”

“Dude,” Dick says, letting out a surprised, relieved laugh. “That’d be amazing. Oh man. I owe you one. You sure?”

“Yes, Dickhead, I’m sure. Which hospital you at?”

“Bludhaven General,” Dick says. He reads the room number off the plate by the door, and repeats, “Thank you so much. I didn’t know what I was gonna do.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jason waves his thanks off sarcastically, but the sound of an engine revving filters through the speakers. He’s on his way already. “Talk to you soon.”

Jason’s abrupt change in attitude is… surprising, to be sure, and Dick spends the time waiting for him to arrive attempting to uncover the reason for the mood swing. It’s possible, Dick thinks, that Jason wants something from Dick, and is trying to get on his good side. The thought isn’t necessarily a pleasant one, but Jason knows how to be manipulative when he wants to be, and at any rate, Dick is  _ willing  _ to do him a favor or two in exchange for his help. Just depends what the favor is.

The other, and far more plausible option, is that Jason genuinely wants to help this kid. He’s always been uncannily good with children--Dick supposes it’s because he empathizes with them after his own impossibly difficult childhood. He’s the sort of person who wouldn’t think twice before putting someone who’s earned it on their ass, but would never even  _ think  _ about raising a finger against a kid.

There was this one time, Dick remembers, from before Jason died. Something he swore to keep secret from Bruce--something he swore he’d take to his grave. He hasn’t broken his promise yet, and he doesn’t intend to.

But. He remembers it like it was yesterday. He thinks about it--almost every day. An experience that had shaped him. Altered the trajectory of his life undeniably.

It was one of those tall, lavish apartment buildings in Gotham. The kind with a luxurious penthouse up top and expensive little condos all the way down. The kind in the rich side of town, where the entrance was guarded by a doorman in a suit and no one was allowed entry even into the lobby downstairs without the specific invitation of a resident.

In the penthouse, where most of the walls were of mirror-like glass and there was an olympic-sized rooftop pool, one of Bruce Wayne’s associates lived with his blonde, size four, swimsuit model wife. They, aiming to take a leaf out of Bruce Wayne’s admirable book, decided that what their lonely little family really needed was some children, and as such, made the charitable decision to foster several who had been taken from bad homes and put into the system.

Except, as it turned out, the associate’s happy little family was not so happy after all. The wife was cheating with not one but two of her…  _ coworkers _ , which meant that she was, in turn, unable to fulfill the more particular  _ needs _ of her husband.

He turned, unthinkably, to the children.

Jason, who had known one of the children during his time on the streets, found out about the abuse and begged Bruce to take on the case. Bruce brought it to the attention of Jim Gordon, who arrested the man and took him to court.

He was found innocent due to lack of evidence--the children had been too terrified out of their minds to even consider speaking out against him, and of course during the weeks before the trial he hadn’t laid a hand on them, so the physical examinations came back squeaky clean. He returned to his fancy little penthouse cleared of all charges.

The real icing on the cake was that the entire trial worked in the man’s favor, and put him in the perfect position to continue his spree of horrific abuse. “ Nor shall any person be subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb…” 

You can’t be tried for the same crime twice. 

The man was home free. Totally in the clear to abuse all the children he wanted--as long as none of them ever said anything he could do whatever the hell his heart desired. And, of course, if any of them did decide to speak up, he had some very special techniques designed to make them reconsider.

The perfect crime.

Robin had… disagreed.

He’d disagreed very strongly indeed.

Because he’d  _ known  _ one of those girls. He’d been friends with her, back when they were both desperate street kids together.

And he knew that man, too. Association with Bruce Wayne guaranteed his slimy presence at several galas a year, and Jason had to dress up in a nice little tux and smile at him as he produced little polaroids of his  _ family  _ from his full-to-bursting wallet.

Batman had proven himself useless in this particular endeavor, so when it came time to take action, Robin turned to Nightwing. And Nightwing will never say no to a child--though at the time, he’d almost been one himself. 

Very late that same night, they paid a top-secret visit to the expensive penthouse with the luxurious private rooftop pool and the mirror-like glass walls.

“You get the kids,” Nightwing hissed to Robin, slipping soundlessly through the pristine halls. “I’ll find the guy.”

Robin had nodded, silent and determined, and they’d separated. But, as it all turned out, Dick was really killing two birds with one stone. He snuck into the man’s bedroom, escrima sticks in hand and ready to strike, and discovered that despite the obscene hour, the man was not actually asleep. Neither, as it happened, was one of the girls.

In bed, together. He had her pinned down, helpless. Hand around her throat.

Nightwing moved faster than he ever had in his life, knocking the man flat off the bed and onto the floor with one powerful kick. He followed it up with a blow from an escrima, and another. He almost saw red. The most disgusting man he’d ever seen in his life. There was no fate too ugly for him.

The man squirmed away from Nightwing’s hits, shouting in outraged pain. He stuck a hand under the bed and rooted around--

Until he emerged with a fully-loaded gun in hand. Quick as a flash, he fired off a shot--it grazed past Nightwing’s leg. Nightwing dodged, spun out of the way just in time--

But that gave the man a free moment to scramble to his feet and press the gun’s muzzle into the girl’s forehead. 

“You make one more move,” he had growled, panting, “the girl dies.”

Frozen, horrified, Nightwing stared. He wondered if he could get the gun away from the man in time to prevent him from shooting her. He wondered where Jason was.

There. Jason was in the doorway, creeping in behind the man’s back so silently that no sound could possibly be detected, even in the deadly quiet of the room. Nightwing began to talk, to try to cover the sound of Robin’s footsteps. 

“Please,” he had said, imploring, “you don’t need to do this. We can work out another solution. Come on.”

The man pressed the gun’s muzzle even closer into her temple. “I can think of a solution,” he’d sneered. “You get the fuck out of here. You saw nothing.”

Dick caught his breath and held it. Jason was approaching, step by step behind the man’s back--utterly and completely silent. “Let go of the gun,” Dick had asked, “I can’t leave until you let go of it.”

Suddenly, Jason shot out a hand and grabbed the man by the wrist holding the gun. He shoved it hard in the other direction, away from the girl, and a shot rang out. The bullet went straight through Nightwing’s lower leg and pinged dangerously off the glass wall, causing it to shatter like a spiderweb. Another shot went through the window entirely, and glass shards fell like hailstones to the bedroom floor and a dozen stories to the sidewalk below.

With a gasp of shock and pain, Nightwing fell to the ground. His leg was bleeding profusely--he had to staunch the bleeding and get help for the bullet wound, stat. But the fight wasn’t over.

Jason had finally managed to wrestle the gun from the man’s hands, and that was what turned the tables. Suddenly terrified, the man began to back away from Jason, towards the crunching mess of glass shards.

Jason held the gun out in front of him, entirely unafraid. The sight had unsettled Dick. It was so out of place. So odd and unprecedented. 

“Robin,” Dick had said through teeth gritted with pain.

Jason glanced down at him and the spreading bloodstain, and his expression changed to something Dick had never seen on him before.

It wasn’t anger, and it wasn’t rage. It was  _ fury.  _ Absolute, all-consuming  _ fury. _

Using Jason’s distraction to his advantage, the man had lunged forward in one last-ditch attempt to save himself.

He grabbed the girl. Dick didn’t know what his intention was--perhaps to bargain for his life with her as currency. Perhaps to hold her up in front of him like a kid-sized human shield. 

Whatever it was, he didn’t get the chance. Face as red as his tunic with unchecked fury, Jason tore the girl away from him and socked him in the face with more power than Dick had even known Jason possessed. It was followed up with another punch, right to the chest, and another, knocking the air out of his stomach.

Reeling from the force of the hits, the man stumbled backwards, skidding through the mess of broken glass that covered the floor. In one motion, happening faster than Dick could process right before his eyes, he slipped. Fell. 

Slid right out of the window and splattered on the pavement below, dead.

Dick is startled out of his memories by a voice above him. “Penny for your thoughts?”

His heart rate spikes in surprise, and falls again when he sees who it is. Jason. “They’re worth more than that, surely.”

Jason’s in his civilian persona--a leather jacket, like usual, a pair of sunglasses that rest atop his curly hair, and a pair of laced up boots that match the jacket. He smiles at Dick, and while it does look like a smirk, it’s not hard to look past that to see what’s genuine underneath.

Dick stands, and despite his exhaustion and heartache, cannot stop a smile of his own from forming. Jason showed up.

Of course he did.

Dick moves forward to hug him, but remembers too late that Jason might not like that, after all their years apart. He panics.  _ Abort! Abort!  _

Dick goes for a friendly shoulder pat instead, and hopes his course alteration isn’t too noticeable. Jason guffaws. So it’s noticeable. Damn.

“Thanks again for coming,” Dick says, voice brimming with genuine relief. He runs a hand through his hair. “I--didn’t know what I was going to do.”

Jason’s smirk turns crooked, and the expression is a lot cuter than it has any real right to be. It reminds Dick of who he used to be--back then. Who they both used to be.

Maybe those people are still there somewhere, hiding. Just waiting to be coaxed out into the light.

Subtly, Jason moves a leg to kick the door shut. “No worries,” he says breezily, sticking his hands into his pockets. The door clicks shut quietly. “I needed to see you anyway.”

“I’m not mad that you left,” Dick rushes to say, “and I don’t blame you for what happened. It--I don’t think we could have stopped it, even if you’d been there.”

Jason scowls at the ground. “Maybe,” he says, brushing the toe of his boot across the pristine linoleum floor in a soft little arc. He brings his eyes up to meet Dick’s. “But you still deserve an explanation.”

Dick opens his mouth, then closes it again, not sure what to say. He doesn’t know what he  _ could  _ say that wouldn’t ruin the moment, make Jason run away again. He nods. 

“It wasn’t… anything you did. It’s--” Jason tilts his head back all the way to look at the ceiling and unleashes a mighty sigh. “Ugh. This is fucking stupid. You know how you were telling me ‘bout how the Bludgeoner killed all those dudes with a crowbar?”

“Yeah?” Dick says, eyes wide. Something about this moment feels important. Like something crucial is about to happen--like he’s going to learn something that will change everything.

The thing with Jason is that when he has a grievance, he has no hesitations about airing it. He’ll yell at Bruce all day long, and when he has an issue with a criminal--it’s even worse. When Jason has a problem, everyone within a five mile radius knows about it.

But also, what makes everything more confusing, is that he uses that anger to mask his hurt. His real problem isn’t what he yells in the passion of the argument--it’s all the little hurts that he hides between the lines. You have to be very good at reading him to be able to see that.

When he’d yelled at Dick that Bruce had replaced him like a dead goldfish--he was betrayed.

When he’d pushed the pedophile out a window to fall twelve stories to his doom--he was terrified for the fates of the children in his grasp.

Bruce hasn’t always been able to differentiate between what Jason says and what Jason means, and that always fueled the fires of their fights until they escalated beyond control. Dick  _ can  _ read Jason--he’s always been able to, all these years. That’s why he’d done what he’d done all those years ago, with the death of that criminal.

Still gripping his bleeding leg, Dick had leaned out the broken window to see the splattered remains of the man below.

“He’s dead,” Dick had said, shocked.

“Good,” Jason had growled, the anger on his face startling. He stepped over to peer out of the bedroom, onto the pavement below. Took one look at the bloody mess, and all color left his face. 

“Oh fuck. Oh,  _ fuck _ , fuck fuck fuck. What do we do? We can’t tell B.” Jason began to pace the room, almost slipping on the broken glass. He turned and punched a wall. “He’s gonna disown us both.”

Nevermind that Dick had already effectively been disowned, he reached out a hand to Jason. “Little Wing,” he’d said.

Jason had turned desperate eyes onto him. “You have to help me,” he’d begged. “Please, please, you have to help me. Being Robin, it’s all I have. He’ll take it away. You have to help me.”

Dick had breathed in, a shuddering, shaky breath. He glanced down at the dead man on the sidewalk and the girl on the bed--she was in shock, and said nothing.

“Okay,” he’d agreed, mind almost numb from the shock and the pain. He didn’t know how to process any of it. But he’d always help out a kid in need. When it came down to it, Jason was family. “Hand me his phone.”

There was only ever one choice, really.

It was just a matter of making it.

Jason picked up the landline from the bedside table and put it into Dick’s bloody hand. Dick had dialled  _ 911. _

“Hello,” he’d then said, voice deceptively calm. “I’d like to report a suicide.”

When it came down to it, it was for the kids, because they were the real priority, every single time.

It’s all for the kids. It’s all for his family.

“I was a little freaked out, when you told me that,” Jason continues, glancing at the shut door of the hospital room as if to make sure it’s stayed locked. “Like, a guy going around killing people with crowbars? It--hit kind of close to home, I guess. Brought up a lot of bad memories. ‘Cause that was how it happened with me, you know?”

“What?” Dick breathes. “You--”

“I was beaten to death with a crowbar. Well--actually, I guess the explosion would have finished me off anyhow, but--yeah. So, there you go.”

_ “Jason,”  _ Dick says, horrified, at a complete loss of absolutely anything to say. What  _ can  _ a person even say, in the face of such a terrible thing? Sometimes there just aren’t words. “I never knew. Bruce never talked to me about--about the specifics. I’m--so sorry.”

Dick moves forward and allows himself to make the move he’d aborted earlier--he wraps his arms around Jason in a hug. Jason may be taller than him now, and bulkier, and nothing like his old self, but it still feels familiar, and right. So does the way Jason leans down to put his chin on Dick’s shoulder. Just like the old days--except then, Jason had had to stand on his tippy-toes to reach. Now, Dick is the one reaching up. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, almost sarcastic. “Just--no kid deserves that. So I’m gonna protect this one.”

Dick hugs him tighter, and Jason tolerates it, because for all his prickly tough-guy exterior, Dick knows that Jason loves a good hug every now and then. It’s one of those things that’s never changed, and feels like it never will.

Eventually, Jason does extract himself from Dick’s arms, and slaps him on the back in a last-ditch effort to preserve some manliness. “I’ve got your back on this one,” Jason says. “Go to work. I’ve got this covered.”

“Jason,” Dick says, voice quiet and serious,  _ “thank you.”  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you super duper ultra much for reading friends :)   
> I'm excited for where this story is going and the potential for improving my writing this year by writing it.   
> Also I've already got the idea for my new Jaydick AU after this one's done... think, hot barista coffee shop romance drama lmao  
> anticipate that in a few months perhaps   
> thanks again for reading haha
> 
> lmk if this chapter makes sense or if its just a whole ass mess because idek anymore


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick and Amy investigate the murder, and they also investigate Dick's rather lacking self-care skill.

Even with Jason’s invaluable aid, Dick’s goal of getting to work on time is a lost cause. He leaves the hospital around eight, has tossed on his police uniform and brushed his teeth by eight seventeen, and bursts into the precinct doors at the ripe, early hour of eight thirty-one. So, thirty-one minutes late. Nothing record-breaking, what with Dick’s unfortunately unhealthy relationship with punctuality, but still late enough to earn him a glare from Amy as he tosses himself into his office chair after clocking in at the speed of light before the clock can turn to eight thirty-two--the only form of damage control he can manage, at the moment.

“What time do you call this, Rookie?” Amy asks, imitating his question from the other day.

“Amy, Amy, Amy,” Dick sighs, shaking his head. “Time for you to loosen up a bit.”

“Perhaps,” she says, rubbing her chin with two fingers. “Or perhaps you’re fired. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Amy, if you’re going to fire me, it can’t be for coming in at eight thirty-one. You and I both know I can do better than that.”

“Define ‘better,’” Amy grumbles with a look of utmost exasperation. “Here’s what’s going to happen. There was another murder last night, at the same hotel as last time. Nightwing was spotted at the scene of the crime. We’re going to go investigate. This time there was a survivor, so we’ll also want to ask him some questions. Apparently the survivor is also five years old, so whether or not details will be forthcoming, is debatable.”

“Sounds good,” Dick agrees, already standing. He claps his hands readily, trying to force himself to act perky and cheerful. A fake it til you make it, sort of thing. If Dick  _ pretends  _ he got eight fulfilling, relaxing hours of sleep last night, maybe it will start to feel like he did? It’s his new working theory. 

“Not so fast, Rookie,” Amy interrupts, grabbing him by the elbow to prevent him from going anywhere. “You and I, we’ve met before. This ain’t my first rodeo.”

Dick tilts his head, bemused. “Okay?”

“You come in late, looking like the literal lovechild of death and despair. You do your whole, ‘Oops, I didn’t even notice the time because I’m too busy swimming in buckets of money to worry about work!’ routine even though I  _ know  _ you care about your job. And then I spend the whole shift waiting for you to just keel over and die, because you look like you might if someone breathes on you a little too hard. Today? Yeah, we’re skipping that today.”

Amy shoves him by the shoulder into his office chair and bends down to grab something from her bag. She produces a child’s lunchbox, made of shiny, colorful metal and engraved with a cartoon of not only Superman, but Batman and Wonder Woman as well, all working in tandem to tear their way through a mob of green aliens. While Dick is not entirely convinced that this image is based in reality, he can accept that it makes an incredibly epic lunchbox.

Amy opens it up and all but slams it onto Dick’s desk, making his cup of pens rattle dangerously. She glares at Dick with an expression of total menace, hands on her hips and eyebrows bunched angrily. “You will eat this sandwich,” she commands. The voice she uses is the same one Dick’s heard her employ when arresting or interrogating dangerous criminals. “The whole, entire sandwich. And you will drink this coffee.” Amy deposits a thermos of black coffee onto the desk beside the lunchbox with so much force, it’s a wonder the desk doesn’t crack down the middle. “And  _ then  _ we will do our jobs.”

Dick stares at her, dumbfounded. He glances between her red, angry face, and the sandwich, and then back again. “Nice lunchbox,” he says weakly.

“It belongs to Emma,” Amy informs him. “My seven year old. Because that is how responsible you’re being.”

Dick grins at her appealingly, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Thank you, Amy,” he tries, picking up the sandwich.

She stares at him, unflinching, the entire time he eats. The scrutiny makes him feel incredibly awkward and intensely mortified, although he supposes that’s the point. “Good sandwich,” he compliments halfway through in an attempt to test whether she’s forgiven him or not.

“Then  _ eat it,”  _ she growls. So no forgiveness yet. Damn.

Once the sandwich has disappeared and the whole embarrassing endeavor is over and done with, Amy’s tense expression finally relaxes. “Thank you,” she sighs, picking up the empty lunch pail. “I worry about you.”

Dick cringes apologetically. “You don’t need to do that,” he says, turning to look at the floor so he doesn’t have to suffer through her motherly gaze and experience the corresponding wash of shame.

“Someone’s gotta, Dick.” She purses her lips and shakes her head. Then she finally stands. “Alright, come on. To the crime scene.”

Dick follows, suddenly hyper aware of himself and his injuries. His right arm and shoulder are bruised purple and green from breaking through the door, and the cut on his back has received no medical attention since he sustained it earlier in the night. He can’t let Amy see either of them--not only would she be disappointed, but it would raise suspicions that Dick can’t afford to handle. He feels deeply ashamed for lying to Amy. She is one of his closest friends, and one of his only friends on the force, yet he hides from her two thirds of his identity.

Then again. He could always tell her. There’s… a concept.

Dick lets Amy take the wheel on their way to the hotel room, and sitting in the passenger seat sipping his coffee, he weighs the pros and cons of the idea.

Amy loves him. She brought him a sandwich. She  _ cares  _ about him. She wouldn’t just throw him to the curb over this, would she?

Maybe. Amy doesn’t trust vigilantes. If she’s told Dick once, she’s told him a hundred times. Nightwing brings trouble. 

Plus, now isn’t really the time to invite breaches into their security. Perhaps after the Bludgeoner mess has been cleaned up, he’ll tell her. For now, safety is the best policy--honesty will just have to take the back seat.

He believes that his decision is the best one, especially in the current circumstances. But it’s hard to look into Amy’s eyes and keep lying. It’s really hard.

When they arrive at the crime scene, Dick and Amy retrace the steps Dick had taken the night before as Nightwing. Through the lobby (now deserted, after two murders in a row) and up the stairs. Past door after door, passing under bright chandeliers and over beautiful plush carpet. Dick is reminded unsettlingly of  _ The Shining.  _ This feels like a hotel that could hold ghosts.

Finally, they reach the door Dick had broken through the night before--it still swings open on its hinges, the handle unrepaired. 221B.

By now, the blood has dried. That does nothing to make the scene less disturbing. Lizzy’s head has been bashed in, and her long hair is crusted with browning blood. Her expensive, designer purse that Dick had saved for her is clutched in her lap--like either she wanted to rescue it from the assault, or had held it up as a shield.

Dick pulls on a pair of gloves and picks up the purse, unzipping it carefully. The contents are a mess--a tube of lipstick has shattered inside, smearing red over everything else, and a fancy watch inside has been reduced to silver springs and bolts and shattered glass. Dick roots through it, placing items into bags to be used as evidence later. Finally, he comes across her wallet:

Elizabeth Belmont. Twenty-nine years old.

“Belmont,” Dick says. “You said her kid was the survivor, right? Do we know his name?”

Amy shakes her head. “Hasn’t woken up yet. The way I heard it, Nightwing brought the kid to the hospital and stayed there ‘til early this morning, watching him.”

“Odd,” comments Dick noncommittally.

“Suspicious, if you ask me,” Amy says. “Why’d he want to stay with the kid? Doesn’t make sense.”

“Hmm,” says Dick, heart sinking. He has made the right call not to tell Amy, he thinks. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to hear her so openly suspicious of him. 

When evidence has been collected from the hotel room and bagged up in sterile plastic bags, Dick and Amy document the scene by taking pictures of the room from every angle. The bashed-in door is focussed on specifically by Amy.

Then, Amy leads Dick to the front desk. She displays to the clerk, who looks incredibly apprehensive, her badge and a warrant, and says, “We’d like to see the hotel’s security footage from last night, please.”

They are led to an employees-only room in the back of the hotel. It’s dark, with one spinning office chair and several monitors.

Per United States laws, no security cameras are allowed inside the hotel rooms themselves--which actually makes them the perfect place to commit a murder, if you think about it. Luckily, the halls, lobby, and parking lot benefit from extensive camera coverage, so that’s where they begin, combing through footage starting at nine o’clock that evening.

“You might be able to narrow it down more than that,” Dick comments, leaning over Amy’s shoulder. “Blood was dry, but the lipstick smeared in the purse wasn’t. So nine seems a little early.”

“True,” Amy agrees. She hits a button to speed up the footage, so they’re watching hours pass in minutes in the hotel parking lot.

Something flashes across the camera, and Amy hits pause. Rewinds a few seconds. Sets the footage to play at regular speed.

Dick’s heart almost stops when he sees what it is. He’d figured this would happen, but predicting it and seeing it before his own eyes are two very different things entirely.

Nightwing swings across the screen to land gracefully on the asphalt, and a few seconds later, Red Hood follows, landing heavily in a crouch. He stands and follows Nightwing to the alley.

“So Nightwing  _ was  _ there,” Amy says.

“He’s not the only one,” Dick tells her grimly, pointing at the camera. In the corner, recognizable by her distinctive, unique, designer purse, is Lizzy, leading her son by the hand through the alley. “That’s our victim.”

Amy’s eyes widen in recognition. She zooms in on the alleyway. “That’s her, alright,” she confirms. She slows the footage down a little, so they’re watching at 75% speed.

Nightwing and the Red Hood are conversing casually on one side of the screen. Dick remembers this conversation. If he leans in, he can almost read his own lips.  _ “If you’ve got it, flaunt it.”  _

Camouflaged by the dark, Dick might miss the mugger’s approach if he didn’t already know to expect it. He comes up behind Lizzy, dressed in all black and a ski mask, and grabs the purse. She yells for her son to run and hide, which he does, and that’s when Nightwing notices the altercation.

Amy’s eyebrows raise as she watches the footage. “Whether or not you like that guy, he’s got moves,” she says, sounding impressed.

Dick snorts and watches himself take down the mugger in two easy strikes. When the guy is tied up on the ground and the purse has been returned to its owner, the little kid comes out of hiding. 

Here is the part that makes Dick cringe to watch. His onscreen counterpart chats with the kid, putting a hand on his shoulder, as Lizzy rummages through her purse. When she finds everything intact, she practically pounces on Nightwing, throwing her arms around him and kissing him straight on the lips. Amy leans back in her seat and whistles. “That’s a turn of events,” she comments.

Dick’s stomach turns a little, but he grins. “Can you blame her?”

Amy snorts.

Nightwing pushes Lizzy away, she apologizes, and soon the whole ordeal is over. Nightwing and the Red Hood are the only figures left on camera, apart from the detained mugger.

Dick remembers this conversation, too, but watching it on screen like this makes the whole thing seem a lot more confusing. Though Jason’s helmet covers his face in its entirety, his body language radiates anger as he throws his hands in the air, puts them on his hips, and crosses them over his chest with tense shoulders. Nightwing just looks confused and dejected, like a guy whose girlfriend is yelling at him for reasons he wouldn’t recognize if they danced naked in front of his face.

Finally, Red Hood stalks away, and Amy pauses the video. “Well,” she says, leaning back in her seat to look at Dick in the dimly lit room. “That was enlightening.”

“Sort of,” Dick says doubtfully. “That’s our victim for sure, but no sign of the killer. Unless the mugger is it, and he gets loose to get revenge? But if I were him I’d go for Nightwing.”

Amy tilts her head. “I guess. But look at Nightwing and this other guy. I can’t believe I’m saying this, and please, if I ever say it again, pinch yourself, but looks like _ Vanity Fete _ got something right for once.”

“Wait,  _ what?”  _ Dick jerks back, completely caught off guard. His eyebrows rise of their own accord. “Nightwing’s not the killer. They said he uses his stick thingies, and we’ve established that the murder weapon is a crowbar.”

“They’re not  _ that  _ right, you idiot,” Amy scolds, treating Dick to her very best  _ you idiot  _ face. “I’m talking about Nightwing and the helmet dude. They’re a couple.”

“They’re--” Dick splutters, completely at a loss for how to respond to that. “They’re not a  _ couple,”  _ he disagrees incredulously.

Amy sighs at him. “You men are so oblivious,” she tells him. “He gets kissed, and Helmetbro looks like he’s about to burst a blood vessel. He’s jealous, and pissed. I wouldn’t be surprised if  _ he  _ went off and murdered her, just because of that.”

Dick is still at a flabbergasted loss for words. He keeps opening his mouth, attempting to form useful, English sentences, but fails several times over before he’s able to communicate. “That’s motive for one killing, not the other five,” he finally manages.

“Can’t check it off the list,” Amy says, shrugging. “Honestly, I might be glad if it was him. Discredit the vigilantes a bit. Too many people place too much trust in them instead of the official system, and nothing good can come of that, if you ask me.”

Dick narrows his eyes. “Why  _ not  _ trust them,” he asks. “Nightwing at the very least is squeaky clean. No claims or evidence against him.”

“Claims and evidence aside, you and I both saw what happened to Roland Desmond,” Amy argues darkly. 

Dick shudders at the reminder, gritting his teeth. “Let’s keep watching,” he deflects. 

Amy obliges and they watch as, on screen, Nightwing pulls out a phone to contact the police for a pickup for the mugger. That done, he pockets the phone and grapples away, out of sight.

“Huh,” Amy says. “Not sure what to make of that.”

“I don’t think it was Nightwing,” Dick says, shaking his head. “Doesn’t fit anything we know about him.”

Amy glances at him sideways. “I don’t think it was him either,” she agrees, sounding disappointed about it. “We’ll keep an eye on him, though, and the other guy.”

“Fair enough,” Dick concedes, though he isn’t necessarily pleased about it. He’ll need to be more careful in the future, especially when it comes to things like coming and going from his apartment. The last thing he needs is for Amy to see Nightwing jumping out Dick Grayson’s window. 

They fast forward through the rest of the parking lot footage, and nothing particularly suspicious happens until Nightwing makes his comeback and Dick feels his stomach churn, knowing exactly what’s about to happen. 

Nightwing lands in the alley, stands, and glances surreptitiously from side to side to determine if the coast is clear. When he has decided it’s safe, he casually approaches the ivy-covered dumpster that conceals his bike.

This part is hidden from camera view (hence why Dick had selected the hiding spot to begin with) but what they can observe is the rustling of the ivy, a moment where everything is frozen, and then Nightwing, running like his life depends on it, out of the alley. The note is clutched in his hand.

“Hold the phone,” Amy says, rewinding the clip. “What just happened.”

“He found a clue,” Dick says, pointing at the note clasped in Nightwing’s grip. “Look.”

“How’d it get there, though? We watched this whole thing for hours. If Belmont was alive at twelve, when the mugging happened, and dead by four, when Nightwing finds the clue, then the killer has to have planted the clue during that time, or else Nightwing would have found it preemptively and been able to stop the murder. So we should see him in this footage.”

With bated breath, Amy and Dick rewind all the way back to twelve o’clock. Then Amy uses the cursor to scroll over each frame. From twelve to three is nothing.

From three thirteen to three sixteen, there is a gap. The footage is gone like it never existed in the first place.

“Oh,  _ shit,”  _ Dick swears, pointing to the timestamp in the corner. “We skip three minutes. Look at this.”

He shows Amy the footage, the way it is completely, utterly seamless except for the way the clock jumps ahead. Someone casually watching this footage, even at normal speed, would never notice a thing--the clips are blended together without discrepancy. Only the timestamp reveals that anything is missing at all.

“Fuck,” Amy agrees, leaning in. “He hacked in. No other way to do it.”

“If he can hack into this, he can hack into anything,” Dick realizes. “Our cameras at the precinct. Cameras right here. He could be watching.”

“Hotel’s compromised,” Amy agrees. “We’re going to completely evacuate it.”

\---

Evacuating the hotel is an ordeal in and of itself. Dick would have expected all the guests to haul ass out of there at the first hint that a serial killer was targeting them, but for Bludhaven, such an event is surprisingly precedented. The hotel management is, predictably, less than pleased, but as Amy succinctly puts it, “Blame the Bludgeoner, buddy, not the people trying to protect you from him.”

When that’s over and done with, the hotel well and truly does feel like something out of a horror movie. Lavish, luxurious, bloody and abandoned. The sort of place that could hold ghosts. The sort of place you could lose your mind in.

He has to wonder whether or not the Bludgeoner is insane--or, at least, if he appears insane to those who interact with him. Or maybe he just looks and acts like a normal guy. Someone you could pass on the street, maybe have a conversation with, and just… never know.

That’s a scary possibility. Even scarier is how realistic it is. 

\---

While Amy’s sandwich and coffee have been infinitely appreciated, Dick can feel himself flagging by the time they return to the precinct at the very end of his and Amy’s shift. He can feel himself becoming frustrated with their lack of progress, and it takes a lot of effort to convince himself to stay level-headed and rational--how can he tell himself he’s an effective detective when he’s failed to save six people in a row from one killer?

The kid is what Dick is holding out hope for. If he’s survived the attack, he’s seen the Bludgeoner. Their only living eyewitness. They just need to wait for him to be well enough to answer questions.

Until then, Dick has to trust Jason to look after him. And he  _ does _ trust Jason. He trusts Jason a weird, unexpected amount. It feels good to have someone to trust--someone to depend on through all the fear and upheaval. When it’s put into that perspective, when Dick acknowledges that he needs someone to lean on, he can’t really think of a reason that person shouldn’t be Jason. He’s as good as anyone. Maybe better.

Amy notices his exhaustion--of course she does, she’s Amy. They’re both seated in their spinny desk chairs in their tiny office, rounding off their shift with some good old fashioned paperwork. Dick is drifting off into a dazed, fatigued stupor, unable to pay a single ounce of attention to the words on the papers, until he is snapped out of it by a loud  _ thump.  _ He jumps, startled. It takes him a moment to realize that the loud noise was the sound of his head hitting his desk as he slumps over onto it, asleep.

Dick jerks back up a split second later, heart pounding, and forces himself to exhale. He runs a harried hand through his hair. 

“That’s it,” Amy snaps, standing up to snatch his paperwork away from him. “You and I are going to have a serious chat.”

Dick’s heart sinks. It’s one thing to lie passively to Amy through omission. Through just casually forgetting to mention the fact that he’s actually an illegal vigilante trained and raised by Batman. It will be another thing entirely to look straight into her eyes and claim there’s nothing he has to tell her. “Can… we do it some other time?” Dick tries. “I’m kind of tired right now.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Amy deadpans. Her lips are pursed angrily, and her hands are stationed firmly on her hips as she glares at him. “We’re going to do this now so you can’t deflect or change the subject.”

Dick, cringing apologetically, waves a hand through the air. “Lay it on me.”

Amy reminds him quite a lot of Bruce, sometimes. Though their philosophies, morals, and methods are as different as night and day, they share the same single-minded dedication to their missions. They are two of the most influential people Dick has ever met. 

Dick’s relationship with Bruce is… complicated, at best. They’re estranged more often than not, and when they’re actually speaking to each other, it’s usually because they’re engaged in a shouting match of legendary proportions. Even so, even despite all that--Dick loves Bruce. He wishes things could be okay between them again.

Amy is different. She’s not quite a mother figure, and not quite a friend--she balances somewhere between the two, ready to be whichever is most needed at any moment. She’s the one person in Bludhaven Dick  _ knows  _ he can depend on, no matter what.

So it had broken his heart when she so blatantly rejected Nightwing’s help. They could have been like Batman and Gordon. They could have helped people. All Dick has ever wanted to do is help people. And here he is, doing it. Here he is, in his detective uniform, filling out paperwork after an all-nighter spent chasing murderers and rescuing children and jumping from rooftop to rooftop. He’s practically falling asleep at his desk because he hasn’t budgeted rest into his schedule, and even if he wanted to, he doesn’t know where he’d fit it. Amy’s mad at him for that. She doesn’t understand that, to him, it’s worth the self-sacrifice.

Would she understand if she knew? There’s no way to tell. 

“You didn’t get any sleep last night,” Amy says, in a tone that invites no room for questions.

Dick grimaces. “I… forgot to.”

Apparently, this response is not the correct one. Amy’s face goes red with frustration. She throws her hands into the air. Again, Dick is reminded of Bruce. “What on Earth were you doing that you could forget to sleep two nights in a row? Several nights a week! For months! It’s--you have a  _ death wish!  _ What am I supposed to do when we’re out there, in the field, and you collapse because you’re too tired to keep on standing? You’re putting yourself at risk, you’re putting your colleagues at risk, and you’re putting the civilians at risk! Can’t you see that?”

Dick shrinks back into his seat with a rush of all-encompassing shame. He feels small. Like a crumb of dirt stuck to Amy’s shoe, or an ugly spider you really want out of your house as soon as possible. “I’m sorry,” he manages to whisper, staring up at Amy with wide eyes. He really is. He is so, so fucking ashamed of himself. He loves Amy. He respects her. Her opinion of him means everything. And he’s disappointed her. 

“You are not  _ taking care  _ of yourself,” she hisses, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “I  _ cannot  _ have an officer on the force who has the self-care skills of a  _ depressed teenager.” _

Dick freezes, horrified. It feels like all the breath has been punched right out of him, like a brutal blow to his chest knocking his wind right out. He’s rooted to his chair. He can’t even--he can’t even breath. “Are you firing me?” he whispers, unable to even comprehend the thought. He loves his job. He loves his job more than anything.

Amy flexes her fingers like angry claws before curling them into fists and releasing a noise of pure frustration.  _ “Gah!  _ Sometimes I think I should! There’s something you’re not telling me, I know there is.”

Dick remains speechless. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish, trying to find words and failing spectacularly. He feels like an animal, backed into a corner.

For a moment, Amy glares at him fiercely, and her eyes seem to cut right through him like an x-ray or a knife. Then, her face softens. “Dick. I’m not trying to--I’m not trying to  _ scare  _ you. I don’t want to fire you. I’m just worried. You can tell me anything, okay?”

He stares at her, still feeling utterly lost. He runs a hand through his messed up hair, glances from Amy, to the floor, to the wall, as if his shoelaces or the drywall will provide him with the answers he seeks. Dick focuses on Amy’s shoes as he opens his mouth to speak. “I know. I trust you.”

“Then  _ tell  _ me,” she urges. All traces of anger are gone from her face, leaving behind nothing but concern and affection. 

He stares at her, into her face and her caring eyes. It’s almost enough to break him.

It would be so easy.  _ I’m Nightwing.  _ Two words. 

“I--” begins Dick. He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. He feels like he’s been put on the spot, like he’s been shoved onto a stage with a spotlight but given no lines or script, and the whole audience is judging him. 

“Dick,” she pleads, voice soft. “Are you in danger? Is that why you can’t tell me?”

Minutely, he shakes his head. “No. I promise I’m not.”

She exhales. “Okay.” Resting one hand on her desk to support herself, Amy shakes her head. “You’re not going to tell me, are you.”

“I trust you,” Dick whispers, voice earnest and genuine in the tense little office. “I will tell you… someday. I promise. I just can’t tell you  _ now.  _ Is that… okay?”

Amy sighs. “You promise you’re not in danger?” Her expression is one of defeat.

Dick nods.

She throws a frustrated hand in the air. “Then I don’t suppose I have another option. You’re a good cop, rookie. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Dick breathes out, relieved beyond words at the same time as his shame deepens exponentially. “Thank you,” he says, full of gratitude and appreciation he hardly knows how to express. 

Amy just shakes her head. There’s a moment of silence, before she raises her wrist to check her watch. “Our shift’s done,” she tells him, beginning to gather the paperwork off her desk to sort into organized folders. “Please go home and get some rest. Please.”

Dick stands and forces himself to meet Amy’s eyes as he replies, “Of course.” For her, he will. There’s time for a nap before he goes out as Nightwing, at least, if he leaves the kid under Jason’s protection for a few hours more. And he can do that. He trusts Jason.

As Dick passes Amy on his way out the door, she reaches out an arm to place a hand on his shoulder. The bruised one--the one he’d used to knock down the hotel room door. Dick freezes, trying not to grimace at the painful contact.

“I just want you to--” Amy begins. Then she notices the way Dick has frozen practically solid, and jerks her hand away. “You’re hurt!” she accuses.

“No,” Dick denies, backing away. “I’m--normal.”

Amy advances on him like a woman on a mission. “Richard Grayson, I swear to God--”

“Amy, I have to go.” Dick picks up his pace to stride purposefully out of the office, hoping it is not obvious the way he has started to nervously sweat. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You are  _ unbelievable!”  _ Amy accuses, voice rising. Dick lets the door close between them on his way out of the station. He’s in his car and driving away before she has the chance to follow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TYSM FOR READING! constructive criticism is always welcome, and I read every single comment and appreciate each one of them so much <333 have an excellent day


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick and Jason have a moment or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank everyone who has made it this far for continuing to read :)

When Dick returns to the hospital to check on the kid, he expects Jason to be  _ in  _ the building. Certainly not  _ on  _ the building. And yet, clearly visible from the parking lot, stands the Red Hood, looming threateningly over the roof as if daring the Bludgeoner to come up and mess with him.

The thing is, Dick is in his civilian clothing (a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a jacket he’d grabbed out of his locker at the police station) and can’t simply grapple onto the rooftop the way Nightwing might. This leaves him with two viable options: screeching up the wall at Jason to inquire what the fuck he’s doing, which would be weird, and figuring out how to join him up there in a way that wouldn’t be overly suspicious. He opts for the latter option, taking the elevator inside the hospital as far up as it will take him and then climbing the stairs beyond. Finally, having flashed his badge to a dubious-looking hospital worker in order to gain entry to the rooftop access, Dick has made it to his destination.

“Jason,” he inquires, “what are you doing on a rooftop in broad daylight?”

Jason, body language reading ease, relaxation, and an utter lack of surprise, turns to Dick casually and says, “This is gonna blow your mind, but for some reason they don’t let random ass strangers stay in hospital rooms with injured five-year-olds. Crazy, right?”

“Total bullshit,” Dick agrees mildly, though in all honesty he should have expected this particular roadblock. “So you’re staking it out from above?”

“That’s right,” Jason confirms. “I see one hint of a crowbar coming in or out of this building? I’m on that shit like white on rice.”

Dick snorts. “A true hero,” he praises sarcastically. “So, you know how the kid’s doing, then?”

Jason nods. “Hacked into hospital security cams,” he says, holding up a little tablet to demonstrate. On the screen, Dick can clearly see not only the kid, still sleeping in the small white hospital cot, but the monitors on his vitals as well. Everything there looks alright, Dick notices with relief. 

“He woke up a bit about an hour ago but wasn’t super coherent. Doctors suspect there’ll be some amnesia.”

“Amnesia,” Dick repeats, dread and disappointment coiling deep in his stomach. He stares at the screen in Jason’s hand, clenching his fist. “Fuck. You think he’ll remember the Bludgeoner?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know,” Jason says, leaning back with an exxaggerated shrug. “What am I, a medical expert now? I’m just here to babysit.”

Dick inhales a deep breath and then lets it out slowly, trying to dispel the heavy frustration that settles in his gut. “Cool,” he tries. “That’s cool. I just--his health is the first priority, of course, but--”

“But you wanted a witness,” Jason interrupts. It’s the natural conclusion, and Jason has reached it in no time at all--four years later and he still thinks like a detective, like that’s just his second nature.

“Yeah,” Dick says, “basically. We’ll still probably interview him anyways. But--yeah. Damnit.”

Jason nods slowly and understandingly. “That’s shitty,” he sympathizes. What surprises Dick is the way he sounds like he actually means it.

Jason is not an easy puzzle to solve. He’s different from the boy who died four years ago, but the same in a lot of ways. He’s rough around the edges--he doesn’t fit into any of the cookie cutter molds Dick’s compared him to. He’s intriguing like no one Dick has ever known before. The detective in Dick wants to investigate--to fit together all the puzzle pieces that make up Jason until not one is out of place.

Jason interests him, and manages to  _ keep _ him interested, every single day. And every new stone unturned is a little victory, urging him on to discover more.

“Where do you go when you’re not with me?” Dick asks in a sudden burst of curiosity, tilting his head.

Jason is silent for a moment, staring at Dick through the hood, and again Dick wishes he wore a costume that allowed for easier interpreting of his facial expressions. Then again, the lack thereof may have been a purposeful decision. Knowing Jason, probably. “Here and there,” he says finally, with a vague gesture of his hand.

Dick scoffs. “No kidding,” he says, unsurprised but dissatisfied all the same. “If I need to talk to you about… certain issues, we need to do it somewhere more private.”

Jason shrugs. “I mean, I guess,” he agrees amenably. “Your apartment’s probably more secure, though.”

“Come there, then,” Dick invites, with an easy shrug of his shoulders. He’s trying to play it casual, make the offer seem effortless and natural, and he’s only half convinced it’s working. Jason is unpredictable. Maybe he’ll take the invitation at face value, and maybe he’ll perceive some unintended threat and punch Dick in the face before he can even think about dodging. 

Jason is a coin toss.

There is a pause, and Dick holds his breath, waiting. Did he miscalculate? 

It’s a few agonizing seconds before the tension is broken. “Sure thing, dude,” Jason agrees all too easily, tilting his head. Dick can almost picture the little sideways smirk beneath the helmet.

Dick, exhaling in tentative relief, matches it with his own pleased grin, surprised satisfaction filling him up like butterflies in his stomach. It feels like one more little puzzle piece has slotted into place.

“Shall we, then?” he offers, taking a step back towards the roof access door. Usually he’d just jump off the roof, all casual, but in civvies, that’s not a particularly prudent option.

“We shall not yet,” Jason says. “Kid. Remember? I’ve gotta stay close in case something happens.”

Dick raises his eyebrows, impressed despite himself. “That sounds… good, actually. Are you sure? I could take a shift watching him for a bit before tonight, to give you a break.”

Jason shakes his head. “Nah, man, I’m good here. You stare at a kid all day through hacked security cams, you get a bit attached. You get me?”

“I get you,” Dick agrees, some soft and warm emotion filling him up. The idea that Jason has somehow grown fond of the kid he’s been tasked to watch over strikes Dick as entirely precious. He’s always known of Jason’s soft spot for children, of course, but seeing it in action feels unexpected and special. Dick is filled with a rush of affection for Jason.

“I’ll be back tonight,” Dick promises, opening up the door to descend down the stairs. “Around… eleven, maybe?”

“I’ll see you then,” Jason agrees. His eyes have turned back to the tablet, watching.

Dick leaves, chest still light with a new, warm fondness. 

\---

Dick does not, contrary to his promise to Amy, manage to fit any rest into his schedule before he’s squeezing into his Nightwing suit and out the window of his apartment. Normally he might have had time for a quick nap at least, but tonight’s agenda is full to bursting, and honestly, naps usually only serve to make Dick even more tired. Luckily, tomorrow he’s got the afternoon shift at the station, as opposed to the early morning one. He’ll be able to sleep in a bit.

Dick might feel sorry about breaking his promise to Amy, but--if his suspicions are correct--she’s a hypocrite. He’d bet a hundred dollars that if he goes to the station and peers in through a window, he’ll spot her, working overtime as usual despite her lectures to him about self-care.

Sure enough, when Nightwing looks into the window of the little office they share, Amy is there, completing the paperwork she’d confiscated from Dick earlier that day. A surge of guilt washes over him. He should have gotten those done before he stormed out like he did, or at least taken them with him to complete at home.

Quiet as a mouse, Nightwing extracts a lockpick from a subtle little pocket and slides it into the window’s lock. It clicks open with ease that is, for a police station, quite frankly worrying, and Dick slides the window open.

“Hi,” he greets, leaning in. Amy practically jumps out of her seat without a curse.

“Fuck!” she gasps, holding a hand over her chest. “What the fuck are you doing here? Oh my God. We have a door.”

“Sorry,” Dick says with an apologetic cringe, leaning further into the window. “Can I come in, then?”

“No!” snaps Amy with an incredulous expression. “You’re an illegal vigilante, no you cannot come in.”

“Fair enough,” Dick agrees, even as disappointment wells up to weigh him down. Amy’s distrust of Nightwing is still clear as day. Hopefully what he’s about to give her will inspire a little more faith, though. “There’s something I wanted to give you.”

Amy raises an eyebrow, the expression clearly communicating her doubts that anything he has to offer will be worthy even for use as a doormat. From a pocket, Dick procures the note handed to him by the Bludgeoner. It’s been folded to fit into Nightwing’s suit, and crumpled a bit from his initial panic when discovering it, but it’s still an incredibly useful piece of evidence. They’ll be able to analyze the handwriting, check for fingerprints, and scan for trace samples of DNA potentially left behind on it.

“The Bludgeoner left this for me to find,” Dick explains, handing the paper out to Amy.

She takes it from him and smooths out the wrinkles to read. “ _ Dear Nightwing,”  _ she reads aloud in a voice dripping with contempt, _ “I’ve been watching. You’re acting so cocky, like you think you’re safe. It’s cute. I think you’re really cute. 221B.”  _

Dick stares at Amy, waiting for her reaction; unfortunately, none is forthcoming. She grabs a clean evidence bag from a desk drawer and secures the note inside before labelling it carefully. There is a tense silence.

“The Bludgeoner is watching you,” Amy says, finally breaking the quiet spell.

“As the note appears to suggest,” Dick agrees. “Detective Rohrbach, I--”

“Oh, shut up,” snaps Amy, and Dick obeys instantly, jaw snapping shut with a click _.  _ “Listen to me for a moment, please. If the Bludgeoner is always watching,” she begins to reason slowly, “he might be watching right now. Do you know what that does?”

Dick nods, mouth going dry. “Puts a target on your back,” he guesses.

“Got it in one,” Amy confirms, unimpressed. “Not only mine, but every other civilian you interact with. The most recent victim, as I’m sure you know, had just been rescued by you. The victim before that, too. If you are the Bludgeoner’s real target, every single person you speak to while you wear that suit is in danger.”

Dick’s mouth is so dry, he can’t hope to speak. His heart pounds anxiously against his chest. Amy is right. Amy is right. He’s endangering people.

“But you have another option,” Amy continues, voice hard and unsympathetic. “You take off the suit. You take off the mask. You live your  _ normal life.” _

“The danger won’t just disappear,” Dick reasons, speaking slowly so his voice doesn’t crack, “because Nightwing does.”

“The danger will disappear,” Amy argues, in the same even tone, “if you let the police department handle it, like we’re doing.”

Dick grits his teeth.  _ Obviously _ he has faith in the detectives. He is one, for Christ’s sake. But sometimes the system fails. Sometimes the system isn’t enough. Sometimes, even the most dependable professionals need a little help. And the Bludhaven police force is far from the most dependable.

“I’m gonna give you two choices,” Amy says, once the impact of her words has set in. Her face softens, and Dick takes a moment to remember that despite her blatant distrust, she is not the enemy here. If Amy knew--

But she can’t know.

“If you quit being Nightwing, the police force will handle the serial killer and you can live the rest of your life safely. Hell. Maybe you can even  _ join  _ the police force. Lord knows I don’t like your methods, but our mission is the same.” Amy’s flinty expression turns imploring. “You’ll walk away safe, and no one else will be endangered by your actions.”

Dick’s breath catches in his chest. Amy makes it sound so logical--so easy.

But it isn’t the right solution. Bludhaven needs Nightwing, like Gotham needs Batman. “Option two?” he asks.

“Option two, you’re under arrest,” Amy pulls a pair of handcuffs from her belt, and Dick’s heart seems to stop. “For illegal vigilantism.”

“I can’t take either of those options, and you know it,” Dick says, voice but a whisper. “Don’t make us enemies. Our mission is the same.”

“If you’re not taking the mask off, you’re resisting arrest,” Amy tells him flatly.

“If that’s how it’s going to be.” Dick slowly backs away from the window, and pulls out his grapple. He’ll have to dash through the parking lot before he can reach a tall enough building to grapple onto, and Amy will have a clear shot on him for those seconds.

Sure enough, visible through the window by the station’s bright fluorescent lighting, Amy is pulling her gun from its holster on her belt. Dick has no doubts that she will shoot him. Amy is a good cop--one of the very best--but she’s not one to back away from extreme force when absolutely necessary. And she’s done her research. She knows that, with the protective Kevlar of his suit, Nightwing can take a few bullets. 

He certainly doesn’t want to, though. Quick as a flash, he bolts across the empty asphalt lot, cutting an unpredictable, zig zagging pattern. If Amy wants to shoot him, he’s not making it easy for her. 

Behind him, Dick hears the stomping of shoes on pavement, and hears a commanding voice declare, “This is your last warning, Nightwing!”

He doesn’t even pause, and it’s not ten seconds later that the sound of gunshots are booming through the air behind him. One whizzes dangerously close, right past his elbow, and in the nick of time he pulls away. Another flashes by just over his opposite shoulder, and he can feel the deafening rush of air in his ear. His heart pounds. Thirty feet, and he’ll be able to grapple away to a nearby rooftop.

Another shot whizzes by. Twenty feet.

Ten feet. Amy is shouting, but he can’t hear what she says through the pounding in his ears. 

Five feet. Another shot glances by and he cannot afford to wait a second longer. He pulls out his grappling gun and shoots the hook towards the sky. He’s not sure if it has enough length or power to reach. It soars through the smoggy air.

Finally, to his immense relief, the hook catches on the ledge of the building and stays put. Dick lets it lift him off the ground, lets himself swing in a fast-moving arc, and finally, he’s on the rooftop. Out of range. He allows himself ten seconds to crouch, panting, to regain some strength.

Then he’s off again, jumping from rooftop to rooftop at breakneck speed. He doesn’t know if Amy is following him, but slowing down is not a risk he can afford if it turns out she is.  In addition, he knows it would be monumentally stupid to head directly to his own apartment. If Amy sees him enter and connects the dots, his cover is blown.  He traverses the city in an unpredictable pattern, making U-turns and doubling back across rooftops he’s already covered. 

It’s half an hour before he’s able to confidently confirm that, even if Amy had attempted to follow him, there’s no way she could have tracked him accurately. Only then does Dick turn back towards Bludhaven General. He’d promised Jason he’d come back to the hospital.

Jason hasn’t moved from his perch on the roof. It’s not a bad spot to be--from the ground below, he’s invisible to onlookers who aren’t actively searching for someone. From Dick’s bird’s eye view on the rooftops, though, he is easy to make out, leaning back against a raised ledge and staring at his tablet.

Dick lands beside him without a word. Though his dramatic entrances are prone to startling the unprepared individual, Jason just looks up at him. “Oh, hey,” he says before turning back to his tablet. “Took you long enough.”

“Sorry,” Dick says, catching his breath. He’s panting from his high-speed rooftop marathon. “Didn’t go so great. You’re good to go if you want to get some rest while I keep watch here.”

Jason eyes him up and down slowly, head tilted in examination. “Didn’t go well,” he repeats, voice laden with careful scrutiny. “How does handing over a piece of paper not go well?”

Dick’s lungs feel tight with upset shame as he takes a seat next to Jason, wrapping his arms around his knees and studiously maintaining an unaffected expression. “Nightwing is under arrest,” Dick says. “and he resisted. Any police spot me, they’re probably gonna shoot. Amy tried.”

Jason releases a long, impressed breath. “Yikes,” he says. “Does she know you’re--”

“No.” Dick steadfastly stares at the live security footage on Jason’s tablet so he doesn’t have to look his companion in the face. His chest and stomach feel swamped with shame. He’s lying to Amy and now she hates him. She tried to shoot him. She’ll likely do it again.

“You gonna tell her?” Jason asks, voice free of judgement. Just curiosity. Casual interest.

“No,” Dick says again, and another wave of shame wells up and crashes over him. He hates lying to Amy. It’s almost worse than lying to Bruce.

And that, if he’s honest, is the root of the problem. Amy reminds him of Bruce. A mentor. A partner. A pseudo-parental figure who cares for him and teaches him and, and maybe even loves him, before deciding he’s not good enough and tossing him to the curb. Despite himself, despite the walls he’s tried to put up and the way he rationalizes her actions and tells himself he’d have done the same in her position, it stings. Because he wouldn’t have done the same in Amy’s position, or Bruce’s. When he loves someone, he never lets them go.

Something warm smacks into his back, and Dick jolts, startled, before realizing it’s Jason’s arm. Jason has, awkwardly and without coordination, put his arm around Dick’s shoulders. Like some attempted form of comfort. Dick, awed at the unexpected show of compassion, glances up at Jason’s face, but Jason isn’t looking at him, and through the helmet, Dick wouldn’t be able to read his expression anyways. Dick’s heart beats faster. The feeling of butterflies in his stomach has returned with vengeance.

Jason clears his throat, looking like now that his arm is around Dick’s shoulders, he doesn’t know what to do with it. “I’m gonna have to stay here tonight,” he says.

“What?” Dick asks, confused. “You’ve been here all day. You can’t--”

“It’s best for the kid to have as much security as possible,” Jason explains, still not quite meeting Dick’s eyes. “So if you’re gonna be here anyways, I might as well stay. For the kid.”

And suddenly, Dick understands.

Jason sees his turmoil and wants to stay with him. 

Jason isn’t letting him go.

An inexplicable lump rising in his throat, Dick shrugs like it doesn’t mean much to him either way. “Makes sense,” he says. For a moment he just lets himself breathe, staring at the bright tablet screen, listening to the noise of the Bludhaven streets below. Suddenly, bravely, he wants Jason to see how much his support means to Dick. To see that his compassion has been noticed and is appreciated--is the only thing holding him together. And with Jason’s arm already around him, it isn’t hard to lean against him, so their shoulders are pressed together and Dick is resting against Jason’s warm, solid form. “Thanks,” he says.

Jason adjusts his arm but does not remove it, and shuffles awkwardly, clearly caught off guard. “It’s for the kid,” he repeats uncomfortably.

Dick understands.

He doesn’t want to think about Amy anymore. He doesn’t want to think about Bruce anymore. And he certainly doesn’t want to think about the Bludgeoner. He is happy to be in this moment with Jason.  “Tell me about before you died,” Dick says. He needs to take his mind off of his problems, but more than that, he wants to learn about Jason.

Jason freezes completely stiff, and for a moment Dick is afraid he’ll be offended by the question. “Sorry,” he amends. “You don’t have to. I just--”

“It was really fucking cool,” Jason interrupts, voice rough, and finally he’s turned to face Dick. Something small and hopeful rises in Dick. “Being Robin, that is. I was… I had been living on the streets a bit. It was why I wanted to jack the tires, you know. Get some money. Find somewhere to stay. I guess that worked out alright. Not how I was expecting it, though.”

Dick leans into Jason, takes it in. Listens. Lets the butterflies in his stomach intermingle with his rising sense of peace.

“At first I was in awe at everything. Bruce just had money coming out of his fucking ass and you could tell, it was obvious in everything he did and every room of the manor. I’d never seen money like that before. There were all these little things that just blew my mind.”

“Like what,” Dick asks, because coming to live with Bruce, tons of things had blown  _ his  _ mind as well.

“Like, so much hot water! I remember, I would never shower for more than ten minutes, because I knew any longer than that, and the water would get freezing. But one day on this mission, we were fighting Plasmus. And I got a whole bunch of slimy shit in my hair.” He shudders. “Fucking disgusting. And I was panicking, like, how am I gonna get this out of my hair in ten minutes? And then I was like, no, you’re Robin, you can handle a cold shower. You’ll fucking live. So I did it, like the brave ass little soldier I was. And ten minutes later, you know what fucking happened?”

“The water was still hot?” Dick guesses. He would estimate that they have enough hot water in the manor to fill an olympic swimming pool.

“The water was still fucking hot,” Jason says. “So I decided I was gonna stay there til it got cold.”

“How long did it take?” Dick asks, smiling fondly. It’s such a Jason thing to do. 

“It never did,” Jason recalls. “I gave up after an hour.”

Dick grins. He, too, had been enamoured with the manor’s insane hot water capacity. He misses it, now that he lives on his own in Bludhaven. “What else,” he asks. 

Jason thinks for a minute. “The toaster,” he says. “Have you seen the toaster? Sixteen slices at once! Sixteen!”

Dick snorts. “A man gets hungry, fighting crime all night. Sixteen slices is probably like a light snack to him.”

“Tell me about it,” Jason agrees. “Say what you want about him, but the man can  _ eat.” _

Dick buries his smile in his knees, pressing his face down against them. “What else.”

“The laundry room,” Jason says. “You know how laundry is measured in bushels?”

“It--what?” Dick asks. “Is it really?”

“Yeah,” Jason says. “How else would it be measured? Gallons? The average laundry basket holds two bushels of laundry.”

“Learn something new every day,” Dick comments, never having heard of laundry bushels before. 

“The average washing machine also holds two bushels of laundry. You know how much the one at the manor has?”

“Ten,” Dick guesses.

“Twelve. Twelve bushels of laundry.”

Dick chokes. “What--what the fuck? How? Who even needs that much laundry?”

“Thing’s fucking huge,” Jason says. “Biggest washing machine I’ve ever seen. I envy it every day.”

Dick leans further into Jason, pressing his cheek up against his shoulder. “What else.”

“You,” Jason tells him.

Dick’s heart skips a beat and catches in his throat. “What?” he breathes.

Jason leans back carelessly, but Dick can feel how tense he is against him. Nervous. “Yeah,” he says easily, voice at odds with his hunched shoulders. “I mean, you were everywhere. He still had all these pictures of you up everywhere, and I think Alfred must have dusted them like, eight times a day. Bruce didn’t talk about you very much, but when he did, it was always, ‘Dick did this better. Dick did it like this.’ And usually I’d have been pissed off, like, stop comparing me to Dick, ‘cause I ain’t fucking him. But being compared to you was--I don’t know. You had this reputation. Everyone who says anything about Robin is all, gushing about how perfect you are. Sometimes I’d kick a thug’s ass, and they’d be all, ‘Robin, little bro, how’s things going, little bro?’ Everyone loved you. So yeah. I guess I wanted to be like you. So I didn’t mind when Bruce would tell me what you did better.”

The lump in Dick’s throat has returned with startling intensity. He tries to swallow it down, emotion choking his throat. “You didn’t need to be like me,” he says, voice rough and quiet. “You were an incredible Robin on your own.”

Jason scoffs. “I got killed,” he says dryly. “Bruce’s mission was a heaping load of bullshit. And I still believe that.”

“I know you do,” Dick says softly. “But it wasn’t your fault you died. And you came back. You’re alive.”

“Yeah,” Jason agrees, pulling Dick a little bit closer against him. “I guess I am. I guess I had some things I still needed to do.”

Dick breathes out and lets himself stay safely nuzzled into Jason’s side. He feels warm and protected, here in Jason’s embrace. Like maybe coming here and saying these things to Dick with his arm wrapped safely around him, was one of those things Jason just needed to do before he let himself die.

He feels the emotion building in his chest, but it’s not a bad thing, and he breathes out to dispel it peacefully. He is glad to be here with Jason tonight.

\---

When Dick finally goes back to his apartment to catch some sleep before his shift at the police station, he is veritably exhausted. It’s been solid weeks of patchy, unfulfilling sleep, and while he feels guilty leaving Jason to stake out the hospital, Jason had assured him that it was in everyone’s best interests he got some sleep.

He curls himself under his thick, soft comforter, and waits for his body heat to warm it up. Wishes someone was with him to cuddle. God, Dick misses having someone to cuddle.

Finally, he falls asleep, and when he does, he dreams vividly. Dick doesn’t dream often, but when he does, he remembers it. The imagery and the emotions stay with him through the day. They affect him profoundly. Like when he dreamed Bruce benched him, and he was pissed at Bruce for the rest of the day. Or when he dreamed the world was ending, and he woke up with tears in his eyes, wishing he’d had more time, because he hasn’t finished yet. 

This time he dreams of Jason. They’re in a vast courtyard, and the sky is dark and streaked with pink--the end of a sunset. It’s a little chilly. The perfect kind of weather to wear a warm sweater. 

He sees Jason, standing in the grass, and as if pulled by a magnet he goes to him. Without hesitation he wraps his arms around Jason--hugs him tightly. Dream Jason allows it, sits down in a chair and lets Dick rest on it with him, pressing his face into Jason’s chest and never letting go. 

“Tell me about after you died,” Dick asks. He doesn’t usually remember the words from his dreams--only the context and the tone and the way they make him feel. These make him feel heavy and sad--so, so sad, because Jason did die, even if he’s back now.

Dick can’t remember what dream Jason says. But his chest vibrates with the words beneath Dick’s cheek, and the words make him want to cry. Jason keeps his arms around Dick. They’re hugging for a long time. Dick wants to hug him like this every single day.

“I had a brother,” says Jason, and for some reason that’s the only phrase Dick can remember. Dick hugs him tighter. Hours go by. Hours of hugging, hugging, hugging, holding each other close.

They keep hugging even when Jason says he has to go, because Dick doesn’t want to let him. Doesn't ever want to let him go, even when he has to. Even when Jason wants to.

And then Dick wakes up, feeling all the emotions swirling through him as poignantly as he had in the dream. The tears in his eyes are real, and he doesn’t know why they’re there, doesn’t know what about the dream had made him feel this way except for that thing where he hugged Jason for hours. He wants that in real life. He really, really wants that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <33 tysm for reading, hope you enjoyed! constructive criticism is welcome, comments and kudos are appreciated, hope you have a lovely day

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! Constructive criticism is welcome. I appreciate all comments, kudos, and bookmarks <3 suggestions are also lovely
> 
> have a delightful day, see you on the next update! 
> 
> lets gooooooo


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